I'm hanging out at Mama Elu's house tonight. She came home from the hospital today, and is on 24/7 home oxygen. Let me tell you, that has gone over like a lead turd in the Monongahela. She sees it as a great imposition on her independence (which it is, let's be honest here) and as the beginning of the end. Hmmmm - I thought that started about age 22. Anyway, she'll permit me to stay overnight begrudgingly, and tomorrow is having one of those radio pendant things installed at my strong insistence -- If she had been just a little sicker last Thursday night, she would have been unable to call me, and I wouldn't have discovered the problem for a few hours. Telling her that she is lucky to live in the age of antibiotics (without which last week would have been a strongly life-threatening event) and oxygen (without which her sats are terrible) isn't producing much positive reaction. It's no doubt a lot to get used to in a terrible hurry. Bro. (in both senses) Joel is doing both the son and the pastoral thing, and Pastor Josh has been very supportive. He's an interesting guy, unassuming and I think very intellectual without being pretensious. Hell, in that respect, he fits in very well in my (and now his!) mountains.
I'm using her computer - biggest damn monitor I've ever seen. TimSon and Mama Elu collaborated on speccing the system. The font appears to be 24 point or so on the screen.
I'm unusually buried in politics this election cycle. In addition to Bro. Dave's judge campaign, I'm working another judicial campaign, a sheriff's race (that may sound minimal, but it's a big deal in WV) and most recently a minor role in a statewide judicial campaign.
Reading is WAY down this week - reading Pontoon, by Garrison Keillor, and it is a certain addition to the next quarterly canon. This guy's use of language is downright stunning.
I confess that I'm run ragged and on the rim of shutting down. By necessity, I'm away from No. 3 tonight, so this will be a bit of a vacation. In some sense.
Walking in the hospital down a LONG corridor yesterday (must be 200 yards long), I suddenly noticed that my long and distance-consuming stride is coming back. Watching this is amazing, and I'm writing, writing about it.
Speaking of the canon, I've offered it in modified form to the WV State Bar magazine, but I don't know if they will take me up on it.
Today's political news analysis: My party has succeeded in grabbing defeat right out of the jaws of victory. I will support Obama or Hillary, whoever the nominee is. I will put money into the campaign. (After all, I would find Vegas to be a great bloody boor, so I've no other way to uselessly waste the money.) But I'm practicing the phrase "President McCain." It's really sad. I was at the barber shop this morning, and there was an absolutely stereotypical political discussion of the extreme conservative bent.
Pippa passes.
R
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Mom's status; brief commercial observation
1 - My mom remains hospitalized, and will be for a while. Systemic infection, serious but fixable. But also a bunch of lung damage, more serious and not fixable. Adaptation to the new reality is going to be quite difficult for her.
2 - I would not buy an HP toilet. And I would only piss in one if the discharge pipe ran onto the manager's desk at Best Buy.
My legendary good nature has taken a bit of a beating today.
Pippa passes.
R
2 - I would not buy an HP toilet. And I would only piss in one if the discharge pipe ran onto the manager's desk at Best Buy.
My legendary good nature has taken a bit of a beating today.
Pippa passes.
R
Friday, January 25, 2008
Dragging so low that if I walked naked through a mud puddle, I'd leave 3 tracks
Lots of things to talk about, but not tonight - my Mom's health crashed bad last night (911 time) and so I'm fully engaged with that.
.
Wish I understood this whole life thing.
.
Pippa passes.
R
.
Wish I understood this whole life thing.
.
Pippa passes.
R
Monday, January 21, 2008
Rank hath its duties; and the troubled conscience of a New Progressive
A few thoughts this morning -- except it's actually published this evening because the Mattel computer system at No. 3 is acting strangely.
I got to No. 3 by 6, worked in the quiet with the eastern horizon slowly reddening for an hour, which was peaceful and pleasant, and then took LaElu up to the local hospital for an MRI. (She has those periodically to monitor a benign tumor on the pituitary, which is not a very operable place.) I served on the board of directors of that hospital for several years (an interesting experience, particularly for one coming out of one phase of healthcare), so I know many of the people there. While waiting for LaElu to get done, I wandered into the executive/administrative offices to talk to a couple of people about a thought I had which might slightly benefit the hospital, and also to do the general networking thing. At 7:15, there were several administrative staffers there, but none of the "bosses." That isn't right. If a "boss" is so damn important, s/he needs to be at work before the other folks. An administrtor also shouldn't need a reserved parking spot -- s/he should get there so damn early that the lot is nearly empty. I am reminded of a quote, and I had to look in my Commonplace Book to find it:
.
If high authority appoints you to an office, know this: Every step upward on the ladder of offices is not a step into freedom, but into bondage. The higher the office, the tighter the bondage. The greater the power of the office, the stricter the service. The stronger the personality, the less self-will.
The Glass Bead Game (Das Glasperlenspiel), by Herman Hesse
.
A worker who happens to be higher on the organizational chart says “Go on.” A leader says “Come on.” There IS a difference. That is becoming more important to me as the years flow by, and I still haven’t totally got it. I’m hardly a total practitioner of the take-responsibility thing, but I think I’m trying to improve.
.
.
This is MLK day.
.
I hate the term “politically correct.” It is routinely applied to progressives (“liberals”) by reactionaries (“conservatives”) to connote that it’s an irrational and intolerant expectation by “liberals” that all others conform to a belief that at least some folks don’t support. Pick a descriptive noun - conservative, liberal, white, Methodist, doctor, union rep, woman, student, gun-owner, athlete, and on and on - and you can find lots of members of that group who are intolerant. Everyone seems to want to show that ALL of those to whom a particular descriptive noun applies are intolerant because of the actions of very few, also known as proof by limited example. The status of the Martin Luther King legacy is one of the subjects of so-called political correctness. That’s sad, because it clouds what is to me a valid discussion of who we honor and how we honor them.
Taking 4/10th of one percent of the available traditional work days to honor an individual seems idolatrous to me. That applies to King. And Columbus. And Washington. How many thousands of people who have done things that matter can we find in American and world history? How many deserve honor? Some of the lesser known:
Dr. R. Adams Cowley - The “inventor” of modern trauma care
Dr. Ingo Petrykus and Dr. Peter Beyer - The inventors of “golden rice,” which has a vitamin A content and which will save literally millions of lives (mostly children) in the coming years.
Count Claus Graf von Stauffenberg - Risked (and lost) his life in a bid to kill you-know-who.
George Washington Carver - Researcher/inventor who made huge strides in food crop production.
Mohandas Ghandhi
Senator Edmund G. Ross - Lost his seat because he sided with Andrew Johnson and his non-punitive Reconstruction plan.
Johannes Gutenberg - I really hope you recognize his name and contribution.
Leo Szilard - The one who originally thought of bringing nuclear research to the U.S. president’s attention, and got Albert Einstein involved because everybody knew Einstein.
These are examples right off the top of my head.
King said “Take the first step in faith. You don’t have to see the whole staircase. Just take the first step.” Does that strike you as hopeful and true? It does me. And it would be equally hopeful and true, no matter who said it. Again, we are finding proof in limited examples. Lots and lots of people have said lots of true things. That Commonplace Book contains a ton of them. We cannot honor them all with a day off. We can honor them by getting off our collective asses and taking action consistent with our - and their - beliefs and examples. Talk is cheap. Tokenism is cheap. Action matters, results matter.
I’ll be at No. 3 all day. And Columbus day. And Good Friday. And President’s day. And so forth.
Mizpah.
R
I got to No. 3 by 6, worked in the quiet with the eastern horizon slowly reddening for an hour, which was peaceful and pleasant, and then took LaElu up to the local hospital for an MRI. (She has those periodically to monitor a benign tumor on the pituitary, which is not a very operable place.) I served on the board of directors of that hospital for several years (an interesting experience, particularly for one coming out of one phase of healthcare), so I know many of the people there. While waiting for LaElu to get done, I wandered into the executive/administrative offices to talk to a couple of people about a thought I had which might slightly benefit the hospital, and also to do the general networking thing. At 7:15, there were several administrative staffers there, but none of the "bosses." That isn't right. If a "boss" is so damn important, s/he needs to be at work before the other folks. An administrtor also shouldn't need a reserved parking spot -- s/he should get there so damn early that the lot is nearly empty. I am reminded of a quote, and I had to look in my Commonplace Book to find it:
.
If high authority appoints you to an office, know this: Every step upward on the ladder of offices is not a step into freedom, but into bondage. The higher the office, the tighter the bondage. The greater the power of the office, the stricter the service. The stronger the personality, the less self-will.
The Glass Bead Game (Das Glasperlenspiel), by Herman Hesse
.
A worker who happens to be higher on the organizational chart says “Go on.” A leader says “Come on.” There IS a difference. That is becoming more important to me as the years flow by, and I still haven’t totally got it. I’m hardly a total practitioner of the take-responsibility thing, but I think I’m trying to improve.
.
.
This is MLK day.
.
I hate the term “politically correct.” It is routinely applied to progressives (“liberals”) by reactionaries (“conservatives”) to connote that it’s an irrational and intolerant expectation by “liberals” that all others conform to a belief that at least some folks don’t support. Pick a descriptive noun - conservative, liberal, white, Methodist, doctor, union rep, woman, student, gun-owner, athlete, and on and on - and you can find lots of members of that group who are intolerant. Everyone seems to want to show that ALL of those to whom a particular descriptive noun applies are intolerant because of the actions of very few, also known as proof by limited example. The status of the Martin Luther King legacy is one of the subjects of so-called political correctness. That’s sad, because it clouds what is to me a valid discussion of who we honor and how we honor them.
Taking 4/10th of one percent of the available traditional work days to honor an individual seems idolatrous to me. That applies to King. And Columbus. And Washington. How many thousands of people who have done things that matter can we find in American and world history? How many deserve honor? Some of the lesser known:
Dr. R. Adams Cowley - The “inventor” of modern trauma care
Dr. Ingo Petrykus and Dr. Peter Beyer - The inventors of “golden rice,” which has a vitamin A content and which will save literally millions of lives (mostly children) in the coming years.
Count Claus Graf von Stauffenberg - Risked (and lost) his life in a bid to kill you-know-who.
George Washington Carver - Researcher/inventor who made huge strides in food crop production.
Mohandas Ghandhi
Senator Edmund G. Ross - Lost his seat because he sided with Andrew Johnson and his non-punitive Reconstruction plan.
Johannes Gutenberg - I really hope you recognize his name and contribution.
Leo Szilard - The one who originally thought of bringing nuclear research to the U.S. president’s attention, and got Albert Einstein involved because everybody knew Einstein.
These are examples right off the top of my head.
King said “Take the first step in faith. You don’t have to see the whole staircase. Just take the first step.” Does that strike you as hopeful and true? It does me. And it would be equally hopeful and true, no matter who said it. Again, we are finding proof in limited examples. Lots and lots of people have said lots of true things. That Commonplace Book contains a ton of them. We cannot honor them all with a day off. We can honor them by getting off our collective asses and taking action consistent with our - and their - beliefs and examples. Talk is cheap. Tokenism is cheap. Action matters, results matter.
I’ll be at No. 3 all day. And Columbus day. And Good Friday. And President’s day. And so forth.
Mizpah.
R
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Stunning stupidity; and a poem
On the way home, I drove down our street, and was really disgusted at a sight. Ordinarily, I think that people around here are pretty well versed in the safe operation of tools and machinery. A couple of fellows were working underneath a truck parked on the street. Holding up the truck was a SMALL hydralic jack, fully extended. No ramps, no jack stands, no cribbing. Doing something where a single part failing may kill you is just evolution in action.
Robert Service (1874-1958)
The Cremation of Sam McGee
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead —— it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you, to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows —— Oh God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared —— such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in the cold and storm ——
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Gotta memorize that, I love it.
Mizpah.
R
Robert Service (1874-1958)
The Cremation of Sam McGee
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead —— it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you, to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows —— Oh God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared —— such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in the cold and storm ——
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Gotta memorize that, I love it.
Mizpah.
R
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Now we gotta get rid of the body
Just a few notes this evening -- went to the funeral of an elderly cousin which was, for some strange reason (at least it's strange here), held in the evening. The deceased was prepared in what appeared to be the usual manner, although my mother commented that she didn't look very good. I wonder - she's dead - she's having a very bad day - I don't require that she look real good. She will be buried at some future time in the cemetery at the no-kidding traditional seat of our family, which is an out-of-the-way Baptist Church on a bucolic ridge with a bucolic name, Harmony Grove. I assume that the deceased (I won't call her Dail - Dail isn't in there, she's just moved out) is full of chemicals which for some very, very strange reason are intended to resist the natural progression of the return to the earth, and that they will use one of those steel vaults that funeral directors (that's what we call undertakers) brag about because they are water-proof, pest-proof and earthquake proof.
What is the point? What do you think should be done with a dead body? (The UK has proposed a policy allowing harvesting of organs unless the deceased specifically opted out. I like that approach, but I understand that it's somewhat controversial.) For myself, I would strongly prefer a cave, such as the early Shawnee in West Virginia used. A real cool old guy I knew found one of those, very cleverly hidden so that you couldn't see the entrance from five feet away (so he said, and I believed him), way, way out in the woods. He said that when it came his time, he wanted to go there and thus rejoin the Great Spirit. (That's not a hackneyed western cliche, that is a translation of the Shawnee word "Wishemaneto.") However, he had a stroke, was paralyzed and aphasic, so not only could he not go to the cave, he couldn't tell anyone where it is. Failing the cave, I would accept a platform so that I can return to the earth through my friends, but that is (1) illegal (not that I would mind, but I suppose I'd need some cooperation by someone corporeally alive) and (2) not really a custom known among the First Americans around here.
I guess I'll settle for cremation. If Bro. Dave outlives me, he's in charge of leading the crowd to some appropriate venue for the scattering thing. (Is it a stretch to think that there will be a crowd? Perhaps it'll be the proverbial one-car-funeral.)
Anyway, no lying preserved in the ground for me.
Reminds me, my Dad often recited the Cremation of Sam McGee. Don't know why that is in my mind tonight.
Oh, the new pastor did the funeral. Young chap, from a big city. He is reluctant to use his own words for things, and I bet he feels a bit like a "stranger in a strange land." I told him privately after the service that although I had never heard the term "homegoing" for a funeral here, now it is in the county lexicon because he brought it here - just as all of our language has been brought from SOMEWHERE at SOME TIME. I really like this guy. It's rather strange dealing with younger people in positions of responsibility and dependability. When I was younger, responsible/respectible meant old. Now, it seems we have children as members of the bar, police officers, physicians, and others. Sometimes I have to consciously remind myself that I can depend on and learn from EVERYONE.
Tomorrow, a case has suddenly gone red, and must be solved in the morning - extremely serious ramifications, and I'm studying on it right hard tonight.
Mizpah. Pippa passes.
R
What is the point? What do you think should be done with a dead body? (The UK has proposed a policy allowing harvesting of organs unless the deceased specifically opted out. I like that approach, but I understand that it's somewhat controversial.) For myself, I would strongly prefer a cave, such as the early Shawnee in West Virginia used. A real cool old guy I knew found one of those, very cleverly hidden so that you couldn't see the entrance from five feet away (so he said, and I believed him), way, way out in the woods. He said that when it came his time, he wanted to go there and thus rejoin the Great Spirit. (That's not a hackneyed western cliche, that is a translation of the Shawnee word "Wishemaneto.") However, he had a stroke, was paralyzed and aphasic, so not only could he not go to the cave, he couldn't tell anyone where it is. Failing the cave, I would accept a platform so that I can return to the earth through my friends, but that is (1) illegal (not that I would mind, but I suppose I'd need some cooperation by someone corporeally alive) and (2) not really a custom known among the First Americans around here.
I guess I'll settle for cremation. If Bro. Dave outlives me, he's in charge of leading the crowd to some appropriate venue for the scattering thing. (Is it a stretch to think that there will be a crowd? Perhaps it'll be the proverbial one-car-funeral.)
Anyway, no lying preserved in the ground for me.
Reminds me, my Dad often recited the Cremation of Sam McGee. Don't know why that is in my mind tonight.
Oh, the new pastor did the funeral. Young chap, from a big city. He is reluctant to use his own words for things, and I bet he feels a bit like a "stranger in a strange land." I told him privately after the service that although I had never heard the term "homegoing" for a funeral here, now it is in the county lexicon because he brought it here - just as all of our language has been brought from SOMEWHERE at SOME TIME. I really like this guy. It's rather strange dealing with younger people in positions of responsibility and dependability. When I was younger, responsible/respectible meant old. Now, it seems we have children as members of the bar, police officers, physicians, and others. Sometimes I have to consciously remind myself that I can depend on and learn from EVERYONE.
Tomorrow, a case has suddenly gone red, and must be solved in the morning - extremely serious ramifications, and I'm studying on it right hard tonight.
Mizpah. Pippa passes.
R
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Saturday Night Miscellany
This week was my Dad’s birthday - he would have been 85. Normally, that would not be in the front of my mind, but a couple of things had me thinking this week. Early in the week, I was at my Mom’s, she was talking about the Masonic service at his funeral. I thought of the tiny emblem (the square & compasses) that he wore on his lapel for nearly 40 years. She looked, found it, and gave it to me. I remember when I was a kid asking him what that was, what it meant, and that was my first introduction to the Craft. There was another emblem in the box that will go to my brother. And then, when I went to pick her up today for a get-out-and-see-the-world shopping expedition, she gave me several books that she just found in the bedstand. I guess she hadn’t been able to open it, or hadn’t thought to open it in several years. Of particular interest was two daily devotionals and, again, one of them goes to my brother. There was other memorabilia in the jewel box, notably Uncle Earl’s watch. Uncle Earl was quite a guy. He lived in a trailer up a remote run in Taylor County, and was on VA Disability since WWII. My Dad used to tell the story of Uncle Earl at basic training, which was at a facility where Dad was also posted. People from Uncle Earl’s unit (platoon? I’m not sure) sought him out to complain and see if Dad could talk to him. Uncle Earl was a walker. He used to get a notion in the morning to go visit his brother (my grandfather), who lived about 15 miles away. Uncle Earl would take off through the woods and walk to my grandfather’s house pretty quickly. After his visit, he would walk home. At that time (and maybe today, I don’t know), when military units marched, there was someone up front with a “guidon,” some sort of flag, and that guy set the pace. The complaint from his buds was that Uncle Earl was walking their asses off. Dad said that there was nothing he could do about it.
Memorabilia, memories - do they keep crashing in on you as you age?
My “second father” (also a Brother) was visiting the Governor’s office last week, and was talking to the chief of staff. That guy is using Governor Bill Marland’s desk. Bill Marland was the most brilliant student ever to attend WVU College of Law, and rose like a rocket politically. However, he had a serious drinking problem, which inundated him when he left office. He was destitute, without friends he was willing to talk to, so he moved to Chicago and became a cab driver. Years later, a West Virginia newspaper person was in Chicago, recognized Gov. Marland, and there was some small publicity. What I see here is a hell of a lot of honor – the guy could have bitched, moaned and faded away, but he pressed on doing honest work.
I was in Court a lot this week with new lawyers. They look lost, as a rule, trying to cover it with cockiness. I suppose that it’s a matter of getting adjusted to a new place. I find that difficult- whenever am going to try a case in a new place, I go to the Courthouse some weeks before a trial, and sit in the empty Courtroom and just become accustomed to it. Is this common? Does everyone have this sort of sensitivity to unfamiliar places? Well, I was in one of the same Courtrooms I’ve inhabited for 30 years, so it feels like home. I remember trying a murder there in 1982 (wow, I was only 29), a case involving a penitentiary escape.
Sometimes, I tell my police friends a story that some people assume came from the representation of that guy in 1982. However, they have never, never heard me say that. The story (which could be true for all I know) is that there was this fellow, who coincidently was on the run, having escaped from a penitentiary. He was on a “most-wanted” list, and presumably his face was on wanted posters all over the country. (I honestly don’t know if police now-a-days actually read wanted posters.) In any event, he was stopped by a trooper, let’s say in Virginia, for something innocuous like a taillight out. He had no ID, but he did have his pistol on the passenger seat covered with a newspaper. He was charming to the officer, and reportedly later said that he looked into her eyes, and if he had seen a flicker of recognition there, he was going to kill her. Perhaps that’s a thing that will only happen once in a quarter of a million traffic stops. The trouble is, the police don’t have prior warning which one it is. If you are stopped by police and they seem a touch careful, that’s the reason.
A bit of schooling. If pulled over by police, they don’t mind if you seek out a lighted place at night. At night, turn the interior light on, have your paperwork ready, and stay in your car. These people are justifiably nervous, and will appreciate it. Oh, and if you are armed, FIRST hand them your permit THEN tell them that you’re armed. I honestly consider all police officers to be my friends – they labor in the same vineyards that I do. Seldom have I been proved wrong.
Down 165. Clothes has become a pain in the ass, as I am in between what I have. Well, that’s not such a bad problem to have.
Tim Son continues to talk to Dad-san about his concerning calls. He had a 45 y.o. guy this week with no medical history arrest on him in the ambulance, and that was somewhat traumatic. Do we ever adequately consider that there are bloody awful things that happen out there, and SOMEBODY has to deal with them? It is so worrisome when young people have to be introduced to Mr. Reality.
I’m doing a lot of “social work” at No. 3 ,the sort which generates zip for fees. But dammit, that’s who I am and what I do. If I were rich, I could freely choose only the clients who really need help but can’t get it. I don’t mean to sound pious, I’m certainly not. Quite the contrary, I often feel quite helpless trying to make seemingly impossible things happen. It’s no surprise that the lack of money is to some extent behind ALL of these problems.
I’ve talked a bit about writing about the obesty experience. I am struck by a question from Rosary “I'll start with a question I ask all of my writing students--just why are you wanting to write about this subject?” Answer: I wish I knew. I feel compelled to do so. Perhaps it is cathartic, I don’t know. I have been running some of the very sensitive stuff by intimate friends, who are uniformly supportive and think that my reluctance is silly.
An ALJ (Administrative Law Judge) made a stunningly stupid, cliche comment about literacy in West Virginia in a hearing this week. Do I bitch or remain quiet? Which is better for the client?
And there are a few unbloggable things going on that are taking up an awful lot of space in my heart.
Mizpah. Pippa passes.
R
Memorabilia, memories - do they keep crashing in on you as you age?
My “second father” (also a Brother) was visiting the Governor’s office last week, and was talking to the chief of staff. That guy is using Governor Bill Marland’s desk. Bill Marland was the most brilliant student ever to attend WVU College of Law, and rose like a rocket politically. However, he had a serious drinking problem, which inundated him when he left office. He was destitute, without friends he was willing to talk to, so he moved to Chicago and became a cab driver. Years later, a West Virginia newspaper person was in Chicago, recognized Gov. Marland, and there was some small publicity. What I see here is a hell of a lot of honor – the guy could have bitched, moaned and faded away, but he pressed on doing honest work.
I was in Court a lot this week with new lawyers. They look lost, as a rule, trying to cover it with cockiness. I suppose that it’s a matter of getting adjusted to a new place. I find that difficult- whenever am going to try a case in a new place, I go to the Courthouse some weeks before a trial, and sit in the empty Courtroom and just become accustomed to it. Is this common? Does everyone have this sort of sensitivity to unfamiliar places? Well, I was in one of the same Courtrooms I’ve inhabited for 30 years, so it feels like home. I remember trying a murder there in 1982 (wow, I was only 29), a case involving a penitentiary escape.
Sometimes, I tell my police friends a story that some people assume came from the representation of that guy in 1982. However, they have never, never heard me say that. The story (which could be true for all I know) is that there was this fellow, who coincidently was on the run, having escaped from a penitentiary. He was on a “most-wanted” list, and presumably his face was on wanted posters all over the country. (I honestly don’t know if police now-a-days actually read wanted posters.) In any event, he was stopped by a trooper, let’s say in Virginia, for something innocuous like a taillight out. He had no ID, but he did have his pistol on the passenger seat covered with a newspaper. He was charming to the officer, and reportedly later said that he looked into her eyes, and if he had seen a flicker of recognition there, he was going to kill her. Perhaps that’s a thing that will only happen once in a quarter of a million traffic stops. The trouble is, the police don’t have prior warning which one it is. If you are stopped by police and they seem a touch careful, that’s the reason.
A bit of schooling. If pulled over by police, they don’t mind if you seek out a lighted place at night. At night, turn the interior light on, have your paperwork ready, and stay in your car. These people are justifiably nervous, and will appreciate it. Oh, and if you are armed, FIRST hand them your permit THEN tell them that you’re armed. I honestly consider all police officers to be my friends – they labor in the same vineyards that I do. Seldom have I been proved wrong.
Down 165. Clothes has become a pain in the ass, as I am in between what I have. Well, that’s not such a bad problem to have.
Tim Son continues to talk to Dad-san about his concerning calls. He had a 45 y.o. guy this week with no medical history arrest on him in the ambulance, and that was somewhat traumatic. Do we ever adequately consider that there are bloody awful things that happen out there, and SOMEBODY has to deal with them? It is so worrisome when young people have to be introduced to Mr. Reality.
I’m doing a lot of “social work” at No. 3 ,the sort which generates zip for fees. But dammit, that’s who I am and what I do. If I were rich, I could freely choose only the clients who really need help but can’t get it. I don’t mean to sound pious, I’m certainly not. Quite the contrary, I often feel quite helpless trying to make seemingly impossible things happen. It’s no surprise that the lack of money is to some extent behind ALL of these problems.
I’ve talked a bit about writing about the obesty experience. I am struck by a question from Rosary “I'll start with a question I ask all of my writing students--just why are you wanting to write about this subject?” Answer: I wish I knew. I feel compelled to do so. Perhaps it is cathartic, I don’t know. I have been running some of the very sensitive stuff by intimate friends, who are uniformly supportive and think that my reluctance is silly.
An ALJ (Administrative Law Judge) made a stunningly stupid, cliche comment about literacy in West Virginia in a hearing this week. Do I bitch or remain quiet? Which is better for the client?
And there are a few unbloggable things going on that are taking up an awful lot of space in my heart.
Mizpah. Pippa passes.
R
Friday, January 4, 2008
Upon reflection, I don't think I can write for shit
A complicated day at No. 3. I'm putting up a blog for the firm, and I'll send some links. (If someone cannot figure who the hell I am, s/he is more inept at this computer shit than I am.)
And I had a dr. appt. in Morgantown, so naturally had to make the obligatory stop at B&N. 6 books, 60 bucks, so many books, so little time.
And I went to the damnedest place in my mind this evening, and I don't think that I can even cast a shadow of these thoughts in writing. I (not so secretly) admire writers whose minds can go to . . . hell, I can't even describe the places they go. Mark Helprin did it in Winter's Tale to an unusual extent. Arthur C. Clark made it in the last 2 chapters of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Some would say that Tolkein found that place, but while the idea of an alternate reality is well developed by him, the world of "Middle Earth" is remarkably conventional. Let's see - Emerson touched upon those places; and Richard Burton (the writer, not the actor) a little bit. Charles Lamb touched them. But descriptions of a truly different kind of reality are pretty poor and very rare even for those. And I know that this sounds like babbling, because these thoughts translate very poorly from my mind to yours using these few dozen symbols arranged in a particular order. Did you ever look at printing, and not see the words, but see the strange symbols and marvel at how any thoughts at all are communicated through them? It's magical, to me. Perhaps these "other places" are so unreachable because we think using language. When you think of a broom, what is the content of the thought - a visual image? an image of the broom being used? or just the word "broom" or, for people who are illiterate, however they symbolize or remember the sound of the word "broom"? If these places aren't recognizable, how in the pluperfect hell can we share them? This is exasperating.
OK - my poor attempt. I've talked in some recent posts about this yearning for a cabin in the dark, dark, dark woods. Tonight would be a perfect time for that, since the moon won't rise until nearly sunrise, and there are no clouds diffusing or reflecting distant light. There is absolute magic in walking silently through such a night, and again I do not have the words to approach my feelings of being a part of the night. I know that Brother Pete has been there, and Brother Dave, and they know whereof I speak, but I can't tell someone who has not experienced it what that experience is . . . like (?). No, I can't tell you what that experience is, it's not "like" anything describable. Tonight, I was in that cabin in my heart -- geez, what a poor description -- the muscular pump that moves blood around my body has nothing to do with feelings. OK, I was there in my mind, in front of an open stone fireplace with a burning fire, perhaps the "birch logs burning" that Kipling described (remember that line, Pete?). In the corporeal world, I can (and do) sit for long, long periods and stare at flames in a fire. At a restaurant with the family the other night, I did just that, and I wasn't there with my body. There is something about the flickering, the movement, the light, the chaos, that draws me in. Tonight, there I was sitting in front of that fire, and I entered into a totally alternate reality, where I became a part of the fire. All of the senses were present. I could hear the popping of the wood and the hiss of air moving, smell (a little) and taste (a lot) of the smoke and heat, feel (some) heat, but the visuals were the most striking. I was in the fire, but not a part of it, and all of the tracks of my mind were engaged there, were totally present there. What I saw was not beauty in the see-the-sunrise beauty, or what-a-nice-painting beauty, it was elemental, primordial, universal, non-reproducable. There is no painting, no photo, no image that can exist in our reality that would be there. The images were of the colors and brightness, of the chemistry and physics, and of the geometry. EVERYTHING in that fire is predictable and follows a fixed path. But there are so many elemental particles at work and such complexity, shapes, fractals and non-connection with conventional perceived reality that it is functionally chaos. Hell, we cannot picture infinity or "even" the size of the observable universe, and we/I get totally displaced in a micro/nano experience? I lost myself for I honestly don't know how long in that place, there was no language, there was no biological life, there was no falsehood, there was no truth, there were no expectations or demands, and the only way I can describe it was that there was nothing recognizable there, the only way I can describe it is by what it was not. But I was there. And when I run down tonight and go to bed, I know that I'll go back there, and again experience something extraordinary, something that has no connection to these symbols or language, and I feel sad that I absolutely do not have the ability to take you there with me. This is sooooo frustrating - I feel mute. And silly, too, because as I look this over, I see essentially blather. But I'll publish it anyway, in the hope that even a spark of where I went will strike a chord with someone. How does a Helprin or a Clarke do this?
In a more localized fashion, this also takes me a bit to other writing in the pipeline. (OK, on the memory stick that's on my key ring.) In a book entitled Living Large published a couple of years ago, a political consultant fellow (whose name I don't recall right now, and I'm too lazy to look, Mike something-or-other) wrote about his struggle with obesity, and how it felt at his high weight. I went there with him because these were experiences that I had. However, his high weight was maybe 320, which in my experience is not that damn high. (See? My reality, based on my experiences, is totally divorced from yours.) I am trying to write about what so-called "malignant obesity" feels like. Partly because it is unexpectedly gross (and I cannot inflict that here) and because it is indeed an alternate reality that is a living torture, I am having an impossible time with that writing. Dammit, I can write humor, I can write cute, ironic, sarcastic, social, loving, informational, verbal, symbolicly, but I cannot write about things that are only in non-language thought. And I have the fleeting thought of, hell, a couple of slugs of the Bombay Sapphire would expand my thoughts and loosen my constraints, but that would only dumb me down even further.
I don't know reality, and I'm without a compass this evening.
R
And I had a dr. appt. in Morgantown, so naturally had to make the obligatory stop at B&N. 6 books, 60 bucks, so many books, so little time.
And I went to the damnedest place in my mind this evening, and I don't think that I can even cast a shadow of these thoughts in writing. I (not so secretly) admire writers whose minds can go to . . . hell, I can't even describe the places they go. Mark Helprin did it in Winter's Tale to an unusual extent. Arthur C. Clark made it in the last 2 chapters of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Some would say that Tolkein found that place, but while the idea of an alternate reality is well developed by him, the world of "Middle Earth" is remarkably conventional. Let's see - Emerson touched upon those places; and Richard Burton (the writer, not the actor) a little bit. Charles Lamb touched them. But descriptions of a truly different kind of reality are pretty poor and very rare even for those. And I know that this sounds like babbling, because these thoughts translate very poorly from my mind to yours using these few dozen symbols arranged in a particular order. Did you ever look at printing, and not see the words, but see the strange symbols and marvel at how any thoughts at all are communicated through them? It's magical, to me. Perhaps these "other places" are so unreachable because we think using language. When you think of a broom, what is the content of the thought - a visual image? an image of the broom being used? or just the word "broom" or, for people who are illiterate, however they symbolize or remember the sound of the word "broom"? If these places aren't recognizable, how in the pluperfect hell can we share them? This is exasperating.
OK - my poor attempt. I've talked in some recent posts about this yearning for a cabin in the dark, dark, dark woods. Tonight would be a perfect time for that, since the moon won't rise until nearly sunrise, and there are no clouds diffusing or reflecting distant light. There is absolute magic in walking silently through such a night, and again I do not have the words to approach my feelings of being a part of the night. I know that Brother Pete has been there, and Brother Dave, and they know whereof I speak, but I can't tell someone who has not experienced it what that experience is . . . like (?). No, I can't tell you what that experience is, it's not "like" anything describable. Tonight, I was in that cabin in my heart -- geez, what a poor description -- the muscular pump that moves blood around my body has nothing to do with feelings. OK, I was there in my mind, in front of an open stone fireplace with a burning fire, perhaps the "birch logs burning" that Kipling described (remember that line, Pete?). In the corporeal world, I can (and do) sit for long, long periods and stare at flames in a fire. At a restaurant with the family the other night, I did just that, and I wasn't there with my body. There is something about the flickering, the movement, the light, the chaos, that draws me in. Tonight, there I was sitting in front of that fire, and I entered into a totally alternate reality, where I became a part of the fire. All of the senses were present. I could hear the popping of the wood and the hiss of air moving, smell (a little) and taste (a lot) of the smoke and heat, feel (some) heat, but the visuals were the most striking. I was in the fire, but not a part of it, and all of the tracks of my mind were engaged there, were totally present there. What I saw was not beauty in the see-the-sunrise beauty, or what-a-nice-painting beauty, it was elemental, primordial, universal, non-reproducable. There is no painting, no photo, no image that can exist in our reality that would be there. The images were of the colors and brightness, of the chemistry and physics, and of the geometry. EVERYTHING in that fire is predictable and follows a fixed path. But there are so many elemental particles at work and such complexity, shapes, fractals and non-connection with conventional perceived reality that it is functionally chaos. Hell, we cannot picture infinity or "even" the size of the observable universe, and we/I get totally displaced in a micro/nano experience? I lost myself for I honestly don't know how long in that place, there was no language, there was no biological life, there was no falsehood, there was no truth, there were no expectations or demands, and the only way I can describe it was that there was nothing recognizable there, the only way I can describe it is by what it was not. But I was there. And when I run down tonight and go to bed, I know that I'll go back there, and again experience something extraordinary, something that has no connection to these symbols or language, and I feel sad that I absolutely do not have the ability to take you there with me. This is sooooo frustrating - I feel mute. And silly, too, because as I look this over, I see essentially blather. But I'll publish it anyway, in the hope that even a spark of where I went will strike a chord with someone. How does a Helprin or a Clarke do this?
In a more localized fashion, this also takes me a bit to other writing in the pipeline. (OK, on the memory stick that's on my key ring.) In a book entitled Living Large published a couple of years ago, a political consultant fellow (whose name I don't recall right now, and I'm too lazy to look, Mike something-or-other) wrote about his struggle with obesity, and how it felt at his high weight. I went there with him because these were experiences that I had. However, his high weight was maybe 320, which in my experience is not that damn high. (See? My reality, based on my experiences, is totally divorced from yours.) I am trying to write about what so-called "malignant obesity" feels like. Partly because it is unexpectedly gross (and I cannot inflict that here) and because it is indeed an alternate reality that is a living torture, I am having an impossible time with that writing. Dammit, I can write humor, I can write cute, ironic, sarcastic, social, loving, informational, verbal, symbolicly, but I cannot write about things that are only in non-language thought. And I have the fleeting thought of, hell, a couple of slugs of the Bombay Sapphire would expand my thoughts and loosen my constraints, but that would only dumb me down even further.
I don't know reality, and I'm without a compass this evening.
R
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
. . . and then you die?
Thoughts of that cabin at the farm and real life are diverging more and more. I "billed" 14 hours today, and I'm tired -
Encountered five people who gave me pause - two have trust deed (our equivalent of a mortgage) foreclosures this month because society's safety net has gaping holes. One called me and a friend and talked suicidal, then was peeved that I called the Sheriff's office to send a deputy to check on her - the friend is coming up to bring her in and go with her through the resources we have. I'm still sad about the friend who suicided over the summer. One WALKED three fucking miles to get to Court - I gave her a lift home and asked her why she didn't call me before the hearing - she said she didn't want to bother me. And a fourth was the wife of a disability client from years back who has herself suffered a disabling work injury, and has found that her supposedly caring employer (a healthcare provider, no less) actually doesn't give a shit about her as a person.
I submitted the entire 4th quarter canon to the state bar journal - it will be interesting to see if they publish any of it. There is a new executive director who I don't know who will make the editorial decisions.
My dear paralegal Kathy had her last chemotherapy treatment today - now for some radiation, and she will have completed treatment.
Down 160, still a fall risk on the ice, and I'm going to keep using my walking stick this winter - looking dumb beats breaking a hip or something. This may be more info than you want, but I find that when one's ass is bonier, it's harder to sit on a hard chair. Oh, and I shopped at a CONVENTIONAL CIVILIAN STORE for clothes today - Believe me, that is sooooooo gratifying.
Also substantial issues going on that I cannot explain that are worrisome. That cabin looks better and better.
Pippa passes. Mizpah.
R
Encountered five people who gave me pause - two have trust deed (our equivalent of a mortgage) foreclosures this month because society's safety net has gaping holes. One called me and a friend and talked suicidal, then was peeved that I called the Sheriff's office to send a deputy to check on her - the friend is coming up to bring her in and go with her through the resources we have. I'm still sad about the friend who suicided over the summer. One WALKED three fucking miles to get to Court - I gave her a lift home and asked her why she didn't call me before the hearing - she said she didn't want to bother me. And a fourth was the wife of a disability client from years back who has herself suffered a disabling work injury, and has found that her supposedly caring employer (a healthcare provider, no less) actually doesn't give a shit about her as a person.
I submitted the entire 4th quarter canon to the state bar journal - it will be interesting to see if they publish any of it. There is a new executive director who I don't know who will make the editorial decisions.
My dear paralegal Kathy had her last chemotherapy treatment today - now for some radiation, and she will have completed treatment.
Down 160, still a fall risk on the ice, and I'm going to keep using my walking stick this winter - looking dumb beats breaking a hip or something. This may be more info than you want, but I find that when one's ass is bonier, it's harder to sit on a hard chair. Oh, and I shopped at a CONVENTIONAL CIVILIAN STORE for clothes today - Believe me, that is sooooooo gratifying.
Also substantial issues going on that I cannot explain that are worrisome. That cabin looks better and better.
Pippa passes. Mizpah.
R
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