Last night was quite amazing. Last minute, I decided to take my oldest son to the Lemony Snicket’s event at Olympus High. Lemony did not disappoint—it was the liveliest book reading I’ve every been to as he ran up down the aisles, played the accordion and piano, sang, shrieked, pulled jaws out of a bag, and interacted in multiple ways with the audience (e.g. warning kids not to not expose their armpits by raising their hands as a bite from the “jaws” is what had delayed the real Lemony Snickets from attending).
After, in an amazing moment of insight for me, I took my son to Café Madrid which serendipitously was just down the street from Olympus high. Of course this set me back about 40 more dollars than if I’d just taken him out for a hamburger, but now he has officially “dined,” something I did not do until I found myself in NY by myself as a teenager in front of a lobster, a lobster and assortment of glasses and silverware I could not decipher. You know how sometimes you set out to have a great experience with your kids and it doesn’t workout—they end up hating it or feel you are preaching or they don’t appreciate it. But this little “experience” actually worked. It was pure delight.
We order a Spanish styled salad with Spanish olives and what I call cold asparagus (it’s lighter and has strange texture), then had entremeses (a platter of cured meats—jamon Serrano, some type of pork, and chorizo), next was gambas con bacon, and lastly an amazingly creamy flan. Our waitress was quite understanding, allowing us to eat piecemeal, sharing each tapa in this upscale restaurant surrounded by real adults dining out. And the owner/chef (who I think I overheard is also an artist or maybe his spouse is—still not clear on this) talked with us and even gave us a free bowl of his special chicken soup. I hadn’t remembered (from my missionary days in Spain) any particular Spanish style of chicken soup so he set out to show me what I’d missed. Turns out the minute I tasted the soup, I recognized the flavors and was sent back to 10-years ago (I mean 16 years ago) to a little old woman’s house dressed in black (still mourning for her husband) who served us chicken soup.
I just have to say that my son was not only a good sport but into it. He’s not a sheep when comes to food—he generally hates to eat out and regularly refuses to eat fastfood. At first he was a bit nervous as the restaurant is fancy and I think a bit disorienting for him, but he settled in and enjoyed each part of the experience. During our meal he said, “I love how each little piece of food tastes different; it’s like when we usually eat we just mix everything together.” Oh son, if you only knew how important those words are to me. A true budding food connoisseur—a wonderful gift, one which will bring you much joy (and probably some harassment and disappointment in Layton) and passion.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Saturday, October 22, 2005
A quickie-post on my worst moment as soccer-dad
My oldest son finished his last soccer game of the fall (they pick up the season after the winter) and I had my worst day as a soccer dad. He's in U-12 which is quite a bit more serious than U-10 from last year--full field, all the positions, and they actually call offsides which is a penalty I still do not clearly understand. During the 3rd quarter the game was going well though a bit chilly since all of his games this year have started at 8am. Youngest son got a bit antsy and wanted to kick a soccer ball around so we went into enemy parent territory where there was a flat spot. We were just about to retreat to "our" end of the field, when my son's coach (who was referring) called an offsides on the opposing team. The parents around me went crazy: "What was that? What are you talking about?" and then amongst themselves, "He doesn't know what he's talking about; he wouldn't know soccer from ..." That was enough to put me over the edge: "HE doesn't know what he's talking about? He's played four years of college soccer and works his butt off as a coach... " (I babbled some more stuff but it was mostly full of grunts and generally incomprehensible). Mark it: this was my first time getting upset at my kids' sporting events. It's not that I really understood the the offsides call that was made and I wouldn't have minded if they contested the call but not the coach's integrity. Coach Degraw has been my son's best coach yet--works them hard with running and drills, pushes them to be their best, but always makes game-times decisions based on what's best for the team rather than just winning. It didn't turn into anything too big (the parents, or maybe they were grandparents which would make me feel worse, kind of gave me a mocking apology saying they didn't know he'd played in college and then, thinking I couldn't hear, "that's probably only a rule in college soccer") but still I felt kind of stupid. And, mostly, I was afraid that as my son gets older and I get less able to compete myself, I might find out I'm one of those dad's who yell at refs and players and then punch it out with some parent.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Gross extraction
My wife has an amazing ability to wipe up, pick out, or otherwise take care of the gross bodily fluids of our children. I just witnessed a snot extraction from our 4-year old via fingernail (no tissue needed). Gross! I mean I wouldn’t touch that bare-handed if it were oozing all over his face. While I didn’t appreciate the bare-skin extraction, I’m quite thankful for this motherly ability. On several late night barf clean-ups, I’ve gagged and recoiled briefly before my wife swooped in, pushing my weakling self aside, pooling and scraping up chunky yellow bile before I could even get back to sleep. For this I owe her my life. If I’d had to do it myself, I would have suffered unbearable and irreparable mental and emotional damage. You might doubt this assertion, thinking I’m just another wimpy male but I do so solemnly swear that there is something deep, something genetic, some tough mother-earth, archetypal energy which allows these magical abilities. Let us now praise everyday mothers.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Left to right or right to left
After having read Unhip's and Mega's blog entries, I realized, yet again, that I spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about planning and being organized and still, amazingly, I'm neither a great planner, nor very organized.
Prime example: my clothes. I used to simply wear everything once and then throw it into the laundry but now I don't feel it's ethical. For one, we now continually have a mountain of laundry (three kids) which is mostly taken care of by my wife and I feel guilty about adding to that mountain. So, when it seems prudent (no stains, not too wrinkly), I rehang and wear again. But this causes a huge problem because I can't remember what I wore the last time I taught my T-TH class or even the day before. Recently, as I realized I was spending 5-10 minutes each morning trying to make sure I didn't wear the same shirt twice in a row, I created an organizational system. And there-in began my problems.
I confidently said to myself, "From here-to-the-future, I will place my worn shirts to the left end of my row of hanging shirts and my problems will be solved." Unfortunately this organizational strategy is similar to my counterintuitive tent erecting problems (see earlier blog): I tend to forget if I'm supposed to put my worn shirts to the left or to the right. Putting them to the right would make more sense because they would then be closer to the hamper which would then symbolically represent their slow descent to uncleanliness. But that's a problem too because after I place a shirt on the right (next to the hamper) it will slowly move to the left, away from the hamper, as I wear and place other shirts on the left. Damn, now the worn shirt is moving away from the hamper which doesn't make sense. On the other hand, I might decide it makes more sense to place them on the left, thus creating a mneumonic device albeit a fairly complex one: hanging my shirts on the left is counter-intuitive because the left side is the furthest away from the hamper and from the symbolic sense of dirtiness. But on further consideration, placing a worn shirt on the left is completely accurate in that now the worn shirt will slowly proceed towards the hamper (on the right) as I wear more shirts and place them on the left. Did you follow that? I'm not sure I did and it's my closet.
Adding another wrinkle, pun intended, my system still isn't completely rational because, while I usually wear a shirt twice and then wash it, I am sometimes, if I get real lucky and have a light day, willing to wear a shirt three times. But this third wearing causes problems because now I have a twice-worn shirt sitting next to (assuming I'm placing them on the left end of the row) a once-warn shirt which are both, now, slowly moving towards the hamper. And this is the story of my life: how will I keep track of which shirt is once or twice-worn and how will I make sure a shirt is never worn a fourth time? At some point, my nose will announce the need to wash but then this might be at 6:30am when I'm rushing to get out to work and trying not to wake-up my wife. At this point, I will SUMB F-it, this ain't working. The next day I will just dump the whole damn lot of 'em in the dirty clothes. I'm slowly losing faith that there is any holy grail of organizing principles out there. I'm cursed to live in chaos.
Prime example: my clothes. I used to simply wear everything once and then throw it into the laundry but now I don't feel it's ethical. For one, we now continually have a mountain of laundry (three kids) which is mostly taken care of by my wife and I feel guilty about adding to that mountain. So, when it seems prudent (no stains, not too wrinkly), I rehang and wear again. But this causes a huge problem because I can't remember what I wore the last time I taught my T-TH class or even the day before. Recently, as I realized I was spending 5-10 minutes each morning trying to make sure I didn't wear the same shirt twice in a row, I created an organizational system. And there-in began my problems.
I confidently said to myself, "From here-to-the-future, I will place my worn shirts to the left end of my row of hanging shirts and my problems will be solved." Unfortunately this organizational strategy is similar to my counterintuitive tent erecting problems (see earlier blog): I tend to forget if I'm supposed to put my worn shirts to the left or to the right. Putting them to the right would make more sense because they would then be closer to the hamper which would then symbolically represent their slow descent to uncleanliness. But that's a problem too because after I place a shirt on the right (next to the hamper) it will slowly move to the left, away from the hamper, as I wear and place other shirts on the left. Damn, now the worn shirt is moving away from the hamper which doesn't make sense. On the other hand, I might decide it makes more sense to place them on the left, thus creating a mneumonic device albeit a fairly complex one: hanging my shirts on the left is counter-intuitive because the left side is the furthest away from the hamper and from the symbolic sense of dirtiness. But on further consideration, placing a worn shirt on the left is completely accurate in that now the worn shirt will slowly proceed towards the hamper (on the right) as I wear more shirts and place them on the left. Did you follow that? I'm not sure I did and it's my closet.
Adding another wrinkle, pun intended, my system still isn't completely rational because, while I usually wear a shirt twice and then wash it, I am sometimes, if I get real lucky and have a light day, willing to wear a shirt three times. But this third wearing causes problems because now I have a twice-worn shirt sitting next to (assuming I'm placing them on the left end of the row) a once-warn shirt which are both, now, slowly moving towards the hamper. And this is the story of my life: how will I keep track of which shirt is once or twice-worn and how will I make sure a shirt is never worn a fourth time? At some point, my nose will announce the need to wash but then this might be at 6:30am when I'm rushing to get out to work and trying not to wake-up my wife. At this point, I will SUMB F-it, this ain't working. The next day I will just dump the whole damn lot of 'em in the dirty clothes. I'm slowly losing faith that there is any holy grail of organizing principles out there. I'm cursed to live in chaos.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
SUMBing the F-Bomb
I was in a huge hurry this morning as I often am these days. At one point I was sitting at my desk, trying to get my stuff together for Humanities 1100 and I realized I was swearing under my breath (SUMB) about every third word. It seems I’ve developed, over the last few years, a SUMB habit. I’m not sure where it started or why but I’m definitely cussing like a patron at the ballet.
I have a complicated relationship with swearing it seems. I remember at eight, after listening to that great Jim Croce song “Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown, baddest man in the whole damn town,” asking my mother if I could swear. I mean how pathetic: asking one’s mother permission to swear? Later as a teenager, my Mormon friends (I was a self-proclaimed atheist at the time) would let it rip. It embarrasses me now to think I was the numbskull teenager in line ahead of some poor mom with her 7 year-old daughter at Hardees saying, “Goddam it you motherfucker give me my wallet back or I will fuck you up.”
Many times I’ve reformed my swearing habits—once, at least in her presence, for my Mormon girlfriend (I will never forget the look she gave me driving to Logan during my Christmas break from Methodist College in North Carolina after I used Jesus Christ in some slang fashion); another for my two-year LDS mission; and another while at BYU which waned when around my Utah State friends. Once I settled down into post zoobie-land life (post BYU), I was caught off guard by the language people in the real world used. Of course getting a job at an alternative high school, alternative in that hemp was THE issue for every paper and large black electronic leg bracelets were marks of courage, my transition was rather extreme. The “foul” language seemed so cruel to me coming from these students’ mouths. I don’t know that the context of their language was that much different from the language of some of the faculty but the presence of the language in class further corroded my already tenuous hold on any semblance of authority or control. And it could be very mean and demeaning—the “you fuckin’ c*nt” variety of swearing.
But even the language of the inactive LDS/ atheist faculty faction (I had been adopted by exception since I was an active LDS liberal), made me cringe. For several months a few faculty members from this group would slip out an F-bomb every time they saw me. It became a big joke because they knew the F-word made me grimace. Often in normal polite conversation big Paul would say something like: “I don’t think this fucking new rule about our fuckin’ students is going be able to prevent them from being fuckers.” That afternoon big Paul would then ironically give his long lecture to the student volleyball team about not using the c-word as his wife had helped him understand the nastiness of this particular word. He relished each moment of these discussions with the students; it was a bit perverse. They had a lot of fun with me and I didn’t mind that much—certainly better than the f-bombs coming from my students. During this time another colleague, Liz, made the first argument I’d heard (I know I’m very sheltered) for the versatility of the F-word: it’s a verb, it’s a noun, etc., etc.
Now I’ve grown up and gone to college—very few if any F-bombs in my classes these days and I have to say I like it that way; at least I don’t miss the threatening or vicious F-bombs. But now it seems I’m dropping little SUMB F-bombs all over the place. I’d hate to do a count on a day like today--certainly moving towards three digits. It’s dangerous you know: a sin is first a thought and then acted on. And in this way the versatility of the F-word provides for many grievous actions: using the Lord’s name in vein, bashing in someone’s face, coveting, flipping someone off, adultery, and not loving your enemy. Maybe I can ask my Mormon bishop permission to SUMB: “I know it’s not quite Christ-like but it’s my way of preserving my sanity.” He’ll never buy it.
I have a complicated relationship with swearing it seems. I remember at eight, after listening to that great Jim Croce song “Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown, baddest man in the whole damn town,” asking my mother if I could swear. I mean how pathetic: asking one’s mother permission to swear? Later as a teenager, my Mormon friends (I was a self-proclaimed atheist at the time) would let it rip. It embarrasses me now to think I was the numbskull teenager in line ahead of some poor mom with her 7 year-old daughter at Hardees saying, “Goddam it you motherfucker give me my wallet back or I will fuck you up.”
Many times I’ve reformed my swearing habits—once, at least in her presence, for my Mormon girlfriend (I will never forget the look she gave me driving to Logan during my Christmas break from Methodist College in North Carolina after I used Jesus Christ in some slang fashion); another for my two-year LDS mission; and another while at BYU which waned when around my Utah State friends. Once I settled down into post zoobie-land life (post BYU), I was caught off guard by the language people in the real world used. Of course getting a job at an alternative high school, alternative in that hemp was THE issue for every paper and large black electronic leg bracelets were marks of courage, my transition was rather extreme. The “foul” language seemed so cruel to me coming from these students’ mouths. I don’t know that the context of their language was that much different from the language of some of the faculty but the presence of the language in class further corroded my already tenuous hold on any semblance of authority or control. And it could be very mean and demeaning—the “you fuckin’ c*nt” variety of swearing.
But even the language of the inactive LDS/ atheist faculty faction (I had been adopted by exception since I was an active LDS liberal), made me cringe. For several months a few faculty members from this group would slip out an F-bomb every time they saw me. It became a big joke because they knew the F-word made me grimace. Often in normal polite conversation big Paul would say something like: “I don’t think this fucking new rule about our fuckin’ students is going be able to prevent them from being fuckers.” That afternoon big Paul would then ironically give his long lecture to the student volleyball team about not using the c-word as his wife had helped him understand the nastiness of this particular word. He relished each moment of these discussions with the students; it was a bit perverse. They had a lot of fun with me and I didn’t mind that much—certainly better than the f-bombs coming from my students. During this time another colleague, Liz, made the first argument I’d heard (I know I’m very sheltered) for the versatility of the F-word: it’s a verb, it’s a noun, etc., etc.
Now I’ve grown up and gone to college—very few if any F-bombs in my classes these days and I have to say I like it that way; at least I don’t miss the threatening or vicious F-bombs. But now it seems I’m dropping little SUMB F-bombs all over the place. I’d hate to do a count on a day like today--certainly moving towards three digits. It’s dangerous you know: a sin is first a thought and then acted on. And in this way the versatility of the F-word provides for many grievous actions: using the Lord’s name in vein, bashing in someone’s face, coveting, flipping someone off, adultery, and not loving your enemy. Maybe I can ask my Mormon bishop permission to SUMB: “I know it’s not quite Christ-like but it’s my way of preserving my sanity.” He’ll never buy it.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Fall Season Musings
I've decided I need to get into another tv show I can watch with my wife. We are going to watch Westwing and we used to watch Judging Amy but it got lame and now I think it's canceled anyways. So, we tried out My name is Ed. It had some great laughs (e.g. redneck Ed trying to be sensitive, "Are you a homosexual American?") but it was a bit crude at times. Not sure it will work. We also tried Office. It's billed as a comedy but I thought it was, at least this episode, so pathetic that I found myself cringing and feeling bad for the characters the whole show.
Enjoyed the fall change in leaves (didn't enjoy freezing my ass off) as I rode down from the Tour de Suds mountain bike race this past Saturday. It's a 6 mile gut buster climb from Park City to Guardsman's Pass. What a strange race: many people wear costumes as it's the end of the year race and many carry up a beer to finish at the top. I don't mind the beer/laid back feel but it's a bit demoralizing when someone's carrying and drinking a beer and still in front of you. One guy did the race on a single speed bike wearing full length cowboy chaps. He finished just ahead of me--at least he wasn't also drinking a beer. It was a nice way to end my summer of riding.
We've been (well mostly my wife) canning salsa, pasta sauce, peaches and apples. I love canning or, better said, I love canning going on while I'm reading a book in the background. The smells are delicious, fresh, earthy and they represent accomplishment, storing up for the winter, and industry: "It smells like...fall."
Enjoyed the fall change in leaves (didn't enjoy freezing my ass off) as I rode down from the Tour de Suds mountain bike race this past Saturday. It's a 6 mile gut buster climb from Park City to Guardsman's Pass. What a strange race: many people wear costumes as it's the end of the year race and many carry up a beer to finish at the top. I don't mind the beer/laid back feel but it's a bit demoralizing when someone's carrying and drinking a beer and still in front of you. One guy did the race on a single speed bike wearing full length cowboy chaps. He finished just ahead of me--at least he wasn't also drinking a beer. It was a nice way to end my summer of riding.
We've been (well mostly my wife) canning salsa, pasta sauce, peaches and apples. I love canning or, better said, I love canning going on while I'm reading a book in the background. The smells are delicious, fresh, earthy and they represent accomplishment, storing up for the winter, and industry: "It smells like...fall."
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Call and Response
Thursdays are my tough days at home. My wife works the entire afternoon and evening while I do dinner in between carting kids to piano and art class. This evening I received what seemed to be two prank calls. I think they were trying the old Bart Simpson call into Moes bar (e.g. asking if Oliver Clothesoff or Mike Rotch is in). I didn't quite catch their nifty phrase as the phone connection was a bit fuzzy and because like Moe I was duped. This is disappointing but what really burns me is my lame come-back.
I was just about to leave to pick up my two older kids from art class; I was already five minutes late and the prank caller had called earlier when I was simultaneously trying to grill peppers, cook corn, cut up a tomatoe, and instruct my daughter in proper table setting. So at this point I was getting a bit irritated with prankster joe. Once I realized it was yet again the prankster, making me even later, I really wanted to scare them off so they wouldn’t call again. And, might you wonder, what did I come up with? Was it something like Moe would say to Bart:
“Listen, you lousy bum, if I ever get a hold of you, I swear I'll cut your belly open!”
Or “It's you isn't it ya cowardly little runt? When I get a hold of you, I'm gonna gut you like a fish and drink your blood!”
No, not exactly. Instead I somehow came up with this: “Listen, stop calling or I’m going to really be here.”
What in THE hell does that mean? They’re probably still shaking in their boots. I can’t believe I had nothing better than that. What happened?!? Performance anxiety? Fear of offending their parents if they turned out to be the Mormon Relief Society President’s kids? Inability to summon vigorous manly anger? If only they will call back so I can really stick it to them. I think I will use Moe’s “cowardly little runt” phrase and then go into a tirade about how I’m a working father with kids and dinner in the oven. Surely they will then shake in their boots and feel terribly sorry for adding stress to my already stressful evening.
I was just about to leave to pick up my two older kids from art class; I was already five minutes late and the prank caller had called earlier when I was simultaneously trying to grill peppers, cook corn, cut up a tomatoe, and instruct my daughter in proper table setting. So at this point I was getting a bit irritated with prankster joe. Once I realized it was yet again the prankster, making me even later, I really wanted to scare them off so they wouldn’t call again. And, might you wonder, what did I come up with? Was it something like Moe would say to Bart:
“Listen, you lousy bum, if I ever get a hold of you, I swear I'll cut your belly open!”
Or “It's you isn't it ya cowardly little runt? When I get a hold of you, I'm gonna gut you like a fish and drink your blood!”
No, not exactly. Instead I somehow came up with this: “Listen, stop calling or I’m going to really be here.”
What in THE hell does that mean? They’re probably still shaking in their boots. I can’t believe I had nothing better than that. What happened?!? Performance anxiety? Fear of offending their parents if they turned out to be the Mormon Relief Society President’s kids? Inability to summon vigorous manly anger? If only they will call back so I can really stick it to them. I think I will use Moe’s “cowardly little runt” phrase and then go into a tirade about how I’m a working father with kids and dinner in the oven. Surely they will then shake in their boots and feel terribly sorry for adding stress to my already stressful evening.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Can I speak to your wife?
I'm finding it much harder to post now that summer is over and real life has kicked in. Having said that I going to keep trying.
No one specific event or issue is nagging and/or inspiring me, but a number of small items.
I drove my son and his five other friends to preschool on Friday. I'm the only father that will take a turn on the carpooling obligations and this I love. I always wanted to participate in those moments in my kids' lives. And, while I can bitch about the pay I receive as a teacher, I do love the flexibility it allows me. Though I've had a number of odd or uncomfortable situations being a father at home, especially in the summer when I'm working from home a lot and my wife is away working. One time a woman dropped off her child to play with Andrew, my 4-year old, but didn't know I would be the parent in charge: she stumbled and stuttered but finally left her children. On several occasions women have called to set-up a play date or set-up car-pooling or to discuss something time sensitive but when I answer and tell them my wife isn't home, they usually decide I'm not the ONE to talk to about such things. Sometimes I've just let it go; other times I've tried to hint that I am indeed the ONE to talk to. Of course I don't blame these women as many (most?) men are clueless (and I still am clueless about such things as doctor appointments and school projects--last year I didn't even meet my son's teacher: what a loser). Still, it's just a bit strange being on that side of the fence, the father at home side.
I realized the other day how hard it might be to be a single-father. A friend of mine who recently moved into the neighborhood confided that it's been quite difficult to fit in as a single father with three kids; as he explained it, "how often do men get together so their kids can play?" Activity and relationships really do need containers and constructions in order to be performed. It's not good enough to just say, "I will be different" because it's nearly impossible to act in ways that are not validated or allowed in our culture. I mean sure my friend could call up some married guy say, "let's get our kids together" but it's almost impossible to imagine: their is very little, if at all, any social structure to support such an event.
Well, it seems I couldn't help but create a little theme.
No one specific event or issue is nagging and/or inspiring me, but a number of small items.
I drove my son and his five other friends to preschool on Friday. I'm the only father that will take a turn on the carpooling obligations and this I love. I always wanted to participate in those moments in my kids' lives. And, while I can bitch about the pay I receive as a teacher, I do love the flexibility it allows me. Though I've had a number of odd or uncomfortable situations being a father at home, especially in the summer when I'm working from home a lot and my wife is away working. One time a woman dropped off her child to play with Andrew, my 4-year old, but didn't know I would be the parent in charge: she stumbled and stuttered but finally left her children. On several occasions women have called to set-up a play date or set-up car-pooling or to discuss something time sensitive but when I answer and tell them my wife isn't home, they usually decide I'm not the ONE to talk to about such things. Sometimes I've just let it go; other times I've tried to hint that I am indeed the ONE to talk to. Of course I don't blame these women as many (most?) men are clueless (and I still am clueless about such things as doctor appointments and school projects--last year I didn't even meet my son's teacher: what a loser). Still, it's just a bit strange being on that side of the fence, the father at home side.
I realized the other day how hard it might be to be a single-father. A friend of mine who recently moved into the neighborhood confided that it's been quite difficult to fit in as a single father with three kids; as he explained it, "how often do men get together so their kids can play?" Activity and relationships really do need containers and constructions in order to be performed. It's not good enough to just say, "I will be different" because it's nearly impossible to act in ways that are not validated or allowed in our culture. I mean sure my friend could call up some married guy say, "let's get our kids together" but it's almost impossible to imagine: their is very little, if at all, any social structure to support such an event.
Well, it seems I couldn't help but create a little theme.
Friday, September 02, 2005
My one poetic act
How do we forgive our fathers?[1]
“That there is the south west corner post to the lot. The line then runs across that ridge and then down on the other side of that brown hill. Do you see it?
“I think so; it’s kind of by that dead pine?”
“Which one? No, not that one; it’s the one on the other hill.”
“Oh, I see it now.”
Every year we make a pilgrimage to my dad’s cabin; every year my dad takes me and the kids for a jeep ride; every year he points out the stakes that mark both of his 40 acre lots. It’s a passing-on ritual, father to oldest son, the son who will remember our land, who will keep it from marauders and bandits.
My father and I have little in common: he’s an electrician, I’m a professor; he can build or fix just about anything, I hire out. I like people; I work with people; I like to talk. My dad is silent; he seems embarrassed and awkward at every social exigency. I’ve feared and even hated him, but I’ve never craved someone’s attention more. Even at 22, a few months after my return from an LDS mission to Spain, I still so wanted to please him.
Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage
or making us nervous
because there never seemed to be any rage there at all.
Last count, I add up exactly one poetic act in my life, one perfect moment where the gods favored me, where my actions were crisp, efficient, symbolic, necessary and unambiguous. On a knoll above our cabin I watched each ravine on both sides as my dad and his friend brushed for me on the last day, in the last few twilight minutes of the last hunt I would ever partake in. Just about when it looked like they were reaching the bottom of the ravines, a four-point buck walked up on the hill about 100 yards away. I raised my 270 rifle, the first and the last time, took aim and squeezed off a shot. All the years of brushing, hiking, and almost-shots paid off. The deer dropped: one shot, one bullet, one four-point. I could see pride in my dad’s eyes as I cut up the belly of the deer from anus to chest and then reached in a yanked out the esophagus.
A Saturday morning, years ago, in our basement--me reclined, my dad coming in for a drink:
“What are you still doing in here?”
“I’m reading, Dad; it’s a really good book.”
“Some of us don’t have time to waste all day on reading; somebody has to work around here.”
How do we construct the past? Can we rely on our memories? I’m confident my dad hated my reading; I’m certain he was impatient when he tried to teach me how to build things or take things apart. Clearly I’m not like him. I like ideas; I talk; I interact with people; I’m uncomfortable with silence, with unsaid things: I’m confessional; I read to my kids, go to their soccer games, talk to them, pray with them.
And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?
Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning
for shutting doors
for speaking through walls
or never speakingor never being silent?
My father has gotten quite obsessive about his cabin in his “retirement.” He doesn’t quite feel like he’s accomplishing anything unless he’s improving the cabin. It’s a fortress with four sources of energy: solar panels, mega-sized industrial batteries, a huge gas generator stored in a horse trailer a half block away, a small generator in the garage; running water from a tank dug in up the hill; cleared and groomed land all around. He just can’t get to my mom’s muddy backyard where she’d like to put pavers, nor does he have time to accompany my mother to watch me complete a biathlon in Wellsville—there’s holes to be dug and walls to build at the cabin.
Do we forgive our Fathers for marrying or not marrying our Mothers?
[1] “How do we forgive our fathers?” by Dick Lourie; read in the last scene of Smoke Signals by Chris Eyre.
“That there is the south west corner post to the lot. The line then runs across that ridge and then down on the other side of that brown hill. Do you see it?
“I think so; it’s kind of by that dead pine?”
“Which one? No, not that one; it’s the one on the other hill.”
“Oh, I see it now.”
Every year we make a pilgrimage to my dad’s cabin; every year my dad takes me and the kids for a jeep ride; every year he points out the stakes that mark both of his 40 acre lots. It’s a passing-on ritual, father to oldest son, the son who will remember our land, who will keep it from marauders and bandits.
My father and I have little in common: he’s an electrician, I’m a professor; he can build or fix just about anything, I hire out. I like people; I work with people; I like to talk. My dad is silent; he seems embarrassed and awkward at every social exigency. I’ve feared and even hated him, but I’ve never craved someone’s attention more. Even at 22, a few months after my return from an LDS mission to Spain, I still so wanted to please him.
Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage
or making us nervous
because there never seemed to be any rage there at all.
Last count, I add up exactly one poetic act in my life, one perfect moment where the gods favored me, where my actions were crisp, efficient, symbolic, necessary and unambiguous. On a knoll above our cabin I watched each ravine on both sides as my dad and his friend brushed for me on the last day, in the last few twilight minutes of the last hunt I would ever partake in. Just about when it looked like they were reaching the bottom of the ravines, a four-point buck walked up on the hill about 100 yards away. I raised my 270 rifle, the first and the last time, took aim and squeezed off a shot. All the years of brushing, hiking, and almost-shots paid off. The deer dropped: one shot, one bullet, one four-point. I could see pride in my dad’s eyes as I cut up the belly of the deer from anus to chest and then reached in a yanked out the esophagus.
A Saturday morning, years ago, in our basement--me reclined, my dad coming in for a drink:
“What are you still doing in here?”
“I’m reading, Dad; it’s a really good book.”
“Some of us don’t have time to waste all day on reading; somebody has to work around here.”
How do we construct the past? Can we rely on our memories? I’m confident my dad hated my reading; I’m certain he was impatient when he tried to teach me how to build things or take things apart. Clearly I’m not like him. I like ideas; I talk; I interact with people; I’m uncomfortable with silence, with unsaid things: I’m confessional; I read to my kids, go to their soccer games, talk to them, pray with them.
And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?
Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning
for shutting doors
for speaking through walls
or never speakingor never being silent?
My father has gotten quite obsessive about his cabin in his “retirement.” He doesn’t quite feel like he’s accomplishing anything unless he’s improving the cabin. It’s a fortress with four sources of energy: solar panels, mega-sized industrial batteries, a huge gas generator stored in a horse trailer a half block away, a small generator in the garage; running water from a tank dug in up the hill; cleared and groomed land all around. He just can’t get to my mom’s muddy backyard where she’d like to put pavers, nor does he have time to accompany my mother to watch me complete a biathlon in Wellsville—there’s holes to be dug and walls to build at the cabin.
Do we forgive our Fathers for marrying or not marrying our Mothers?
For Divorcing or not divorcing our Mothers?
Motivation, obsession, and meaning. In last 10 years, I’ve obsessed about running the Wasatch 100 mile footrace. I toiled away 13 hours on one trail run. I left our house at ungodly hours of the day; I’ve thrown up for days after a race but I just can’t quite get to the outlet my wife would like in the bathroom. How can this be? Son of a bitch: son of my dad.
Do we forgive our fathers in our age--or in theirs?
Motivation, obsession, and meaning. In last 10 years, I’ve obsessed about running the Wasatch 100 mile footrace. I toiled away 13 hours on one trail run. I left our house at ungodly hours of the day; I’ve thrown up for days after a race but I just can’t quite get to the outlet my wife would like in the bathroom. How can this be? Son of a bitch: son of my dad.
Do we forgive our fathers in our age--or in theirs?
Or in their death?
If we forgive our fathers, what is left?
[1] “How do we forgive our fathers?” by Dick Lourie; read in the last scene of Smoke Signals by Chris Eyre.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
looming semester
I wrote down some notes while at my parent's cabin about a blog on men, hunting, and digging trenches, but I'm too stressed about the upcoming semester to flesh it out at this point.
Why does it seem that I always set out to prepare dutifully for my fall classes during the summer, only to wind up scrambling to figure out what the hell I'm doing during the 3rd week of August. My only hope is that it can't possibly be worse than last spring when I showed up (first time in teaching career) to my first day of a class without a syllabus and without realizing I didn't have it.
Why does it seem that I always set out to prepare dutifully for my fall classes during the summer, only to wind up scrambling to figure out what the hell I'm doing during the 3rd week of August. My only hope is that it can't possibly be worse than last spring when I showed up (first time in teaching career) to my first day of a class without a syllabus and without realizing I didn't have it.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Anarchists in Cache Valley?
I went to a cousin’s marriage today, one of the few events in which I see another cousin (groom’s brother) who lives in Denver. It generally only takes us a few minutes to go deep. Normally we start talking books or movies and then bump up against some friction or tension. Today I mentioned the PBS special of Jared Diamond’s, IMHO, amazing Guns, Germs and Steel (a book my cousin had recommended a few years back). My cousin said he wasn’t too interested in the PBS special since he’d read the book, plus he disagreed with some of Diamond's work, especially his new book on civilization. He then went on to explain that he is anti-civilization (I had to resist pointing out that he had just given a toast to celebrate his brother’s wedding, THE ritual of civilization) and doesn’t believe we can reform away our problems. His idea is that we must save the planet first and then figure out our own society. A familiar argument, he argues that society has built layers of consciousness thus removing the individual from direct experience with survival and the earth.
After going out to my car to get a phone number (I was in the middle of trying to set up a pick-up for my new bike rack—talk about layers of constructed consciousness and experience), I sought my cousin out again. I still had some fight:
“So, if you are against civilization and believe we have deceived ourselves with self-conscious layers of ‘thinking about life’ then how can you be sure that your anarchist platform is not just another layer, just another feeble human attempt to abstract its way from direct contact with the earth? Do you know what I’m saying?”
“I do. The idea that by telling everyone they need to live in a certain way the anarchist becomes some sort of elitist.”
“Yeah, in part.”
“Well, it’s different than that. What I’m saying is we go back to our individual roots. I mean did you know that in some hunter gather societies people worked for 3-4 hours a day? So are we progressing?”
“I have heard of this before, but still how can this new idea, these ideas of anarchism, pull themselves out of society, outside of consciousness? This sounds like another sort of ‘false consciousness’ move to me.”
“It’s not about telling people what to do but about each individual getting closer to this unmitigated experience. It’s not the group.”
So is my cousin an anarchist? I do respect him. He does, by and large, live his creed. He has turned down full-time and long-term employment so that he isn’t tied to a job. And he uses his time wisely. He’s been to Italy a number of times and to Japan. This next semester he is going to volunteer two weeks in Costa Rica to help out with sea turtles. Also, he will help put on his second play in January, a political satire, run by a very small yet progressive and participatory theatre group in Denver.
And this is amazing. He grew up in Cache Valley; his mom was 15 when she got pregnant with him. Growing up he didn’t seem that interested in academics. He was, though, a very fine wrestler but also, as seems to accompany success in sports, quite cocky and full of himself. I still remember how he told me he could become a better skier than I was after skiing 3 or 4 times (I’d been skiing, taking lessons and racing some for about 6 or 7 years). And now he’s an anarchist. How did he extricate himself from such a masculine small-town mentality?
I’m fairly cynical about society’s ability to reform itself; nonetheless, I think the effort to reform, whether it leads to an absolute reformation, is still worthy of something. I guess I’m a bit of an existentialist in that way—rolling the rock up the hill, even though we know it will come back down, must count for something. And I think our layers of ritual and society do create authentic, albeit imperfect, meaning in our lives. Still, it seems too simplistic to say my cousin is wrong and I’m right. I guess I’m more concerned with how he lives his beliefs and from that perspective he really is a true anarchist.
After going out to my car to get a phone number (I was in the middle of trying to set up a pick-up for my new bike rack—talk about layers of constructed consciousness and experience), I sought my cousin out again. I still had some fight:
“So, if you are against civilization and believe we have deceived ourselves with self-conscious layers of ‘thinking about life’ then how can you be sure that your anarchist platform is not just another layer, just another feeble human attempt to abstract its way from direct contact with the earth? Do you know what I’m saying?”
“I do. The idea that by telling everyone they need to live in a certain way the anarchist becomes some sort of elitist.”
“Yeah, in part.”
“Well, it’s different than that. What I’m saying is we go back to our individual roots. I mean did you know that in some hunter gather societies people worked for 3-4 hours a day? So are we progressing?”
“I have heard of this before, but still how can this new idea, these ideas of anarchism, pull themselves out of society, outside of consciousness? This sounds like another sort of ‘false consciousness’ move to me.”
“It’s not about telling people what to do but about each individual getting closer to this unmitigated experience. It’s not the group.”
So is my cousin an anarchist? I do respect him. He does, by and large, live his creed. He has turned down full-time and long-term employment so that he isn’t tied to a job. And he uses his time wisely. He’s been to Italy a number of times and to Japan. This next semester he is going to volunteer two weeks in Costa Rica to help out with sea turtles. Also, he will help put on his second play in January, a political satire, run by a very small yet progressive and participatory theatre group in Denver.
And this is amazing. He grew up in Cache Valley; his mom was 15 when she got pregnant with him. Growing up he didn’t seem that interested in academics. He was, though, a very fine wrestler but also, as seems to accompany success in sports, quite cocky and full of himself. I still remember how he told me he could become a better skier than I was after skiing 3 or 4 times (I’d been skiing, taking lessons and racing some for about 6 or 7 years). And now he’s an anarchist. How did he extricate himself from such a masculine small-town mentality?
I’m fairly cynical about society’s ability to reform itself; nonetheless, I think the effort to reform, whether it leads to an absolute reformation, is still worthy of something. I guess I’m a bit of an existentialist in that way—rolling the rock up the hill, even though we know it will come back down, must count for something. And I think our layers of ritual and society do create authentic, albeit imperfect, meaning in our lives. Still, it seems too simplistic to say my cousin is wrong and I’m right. I guess I’m more concerned with how he lives his beliefs and from that perspective he really is a true anarchist.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Tallying up the summer
Still reeling from the accusations of writing a depressing blog, I want to, in true cliché fashion, focus on the positive. Actually, I’m getting a bit reflective, somewhat nostalgic and want to impress on my mind what’s been accomplished and what’s gone well, in order to thwart my obsessive nature which always says, “I could’ve done more, coulda worked harder, coulda got up earlier, coulda had more energy” (you get the picture). So, on with the list in no particular order:
I started a blog and have been writing more frequently than I have for years (excluding crunch time papers).
My 4-year old son gives me hugs everyday as I’ve been home a lot (he loves and needs much hugging) and he still plays a bedtime goodnight game I started with him a year ago or so: “I love you…I love you more….I love you the most ….I love you more than the most….I love you the mostest” etc. infinitum until I give in and let him love me more.
I lost my running habit which led to extra time and energy to study—most theoretical and difficult reading done since starting SLCC.
Took kids backpacking—memory is bliss even though actual event was sorta o.k.
I baptized my 8-year old daughter. We had a few nice connections before and after, something I generally struggle to create with my very quiet not so bookish, people-focused daughter.
I read Joe Harris’ A Teaching Subject and felt rejuvenated professionally.
Several students got something out of my first go round with Envision: one students created a rhetorically savvy website and several students thanked me for having a class that allowed them to explore their interests.
I've had more time to talk and watch movies with my wife—I would have never guessed it could feel quite this way after 13 years.
I made time for my hometeaching (Mormon church visits) and while most were very perfunctory, checking it off the list as it were, one visit was quite amazing: a young couple facing some of life’s big changes in a very similar fashion to what we did 10 years ago. Husband had just accepted a job and wife was quitting her job so they could move south and then have their baby in September. In a rare fit of listening for me, I realized they just wanted to talk and be reassured.
Experienced beauty of the west: Yellowstone’s colorful hot pools, Island Park’s slow moving rivers, Zion’s amazing views atop Angel’s Landing, and the Uintas’ glassy lakes and cloudy skies.
Was around to see son ride his bike without training wheels—hadn’t needed them for months but was oh so attached.
Made time to watch older classics: Hitchcock’s Notorious (great dialogue but hard to believe they are really spies) and Vertigo; Fellini’s 8 ½ (not as great as billed); Bertoluccis’ (and Brando’s) The Last Tango in Paris (as disturbing as I expected); Brest’s (and Pacino’s) Scent of a Woman (I love Pacino—“Whoo-ah”); Ingmar Bergman’s Cries and Whispers.
Have amazingly curious kids who were willing to watch non-Disney films: several Charlie Chaplin’s including Gold Rush (great scene where the house is teetering off the cliff—kids giggled like crazy); several three stooges films; Phantom of the Opera and others.
Completed first biathlon.
Helped neighbor with swimming pool even though said neighbor has been extremely insensitive with us in the past.
Finished Plato’s Gorgias
Gained much insight and understanding of composition field and SLCC English dept. by serving on the hiring committee.
I started a blog and have been writing more frequently than I have for years (excluding crunch time papers).
My 4-year old son gives me hugs everyday as I’ve been home a lot (he loves and needs much hugging) and he still plays a bedtime goodnight game I started with him a year ago or so: “I love you…I love you more….I love you the most ….I love you more than the most….I love you the mostest” etc. infinitum until I give in and let him love me more.
I lost my running habit which led to extra time and energy to study—most theoretical and difficult reading done since starting SLCC.
Took kids backpacking—memory is bliss even though actual event was sorta o.k.
I baptized my 8-year old daughter. We had a few nice connections before and after, something I generally struggle to create with my very quiet not so bookish, people-focused daughter.
I read Joe Harris’ A Teaching Subject and felt rejuvenated professionally.
Several students got something out of my first go round with Envision: one students created a rhetorically savvy website and several students thanked me for having a class that allowed them to explore their interests.
I've had more time to talk and watch movies with my wife—I would have never guessed it could feel quite this way after 13 years.
I made time for my hometeaching (Mormon church visits) and while most were very perfunctory, checking it off the list as it were, one visit was quite amazing: a young couple facing some of life’s big changes in a very similar fashion to what we did 10 years ago. Husband had just accepted a job and wife was quitting her job so they could move south and then have their baby in September. In a rare fit of listening for me, I realized they just wanted to talk and be reassured.
Experienced beauty of the west: Yellowstone’s colorful hot pools, Island Park’s slow moving rivers, Zion’s amazing views atop Angel’s Landing, and the Uintas’ glassy lakes and cloudy skies.
Was around to see son ride his bike without training wheels—hadn’t needed them for months but was oh so attached.
Made time to watch older classics: Hitchcock’s Notorious (great dialogue but hard to believe they are really spies) and Vertigo; Fellini’s 8 ½ (not as great as billed); Bertoluccis’ (and Brando’s) The Last Tango in Paris (as disturbing as I expected); Brest’s (and Pacino’s) Scent of a Woman (I love Pacino—“Whoo-ah”); Ingmar Bergman’s Cries and Whispers.
Have amazingly curious kids who were willing to watch non-Disney films: several Charlie Chaplin’s including Gold Rush (great scene where the house is teetering off the cliff—kids giggled like crazy); several three stooges films; Phantom of the Opera and others.
Completed first biathlon.
Helped neighbor with swimming pool even though said neighbor has been extremely insensitive with us in the past.
Finished Plato’s Gorgias
Gained much insight and understanding of composition field and SLCC English dept. by serving on the hiring committee.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Birthday Angst
I just escaped from my daughter’s 8th b-day party for her friends. My official masculine role was to light the candles. It’s a pretty big to do as we only allow “friend parties” on significant birthdays—5, 8, 12, and 16. My wife created a fancy Hawaiian theme with little wooden umbrellas to stick in the smoothies, music, and grass skirts. While lighting the candles I was thinking about how removed from the moment I was which led me to thinking about writing a blog about this insight which then reminded me of what my friend said about my blog, “Your blog is depressing; I don’t mean that as a critique but just as an observation.” It seems I’m rarely having a ball right in the moment, especially when (b-days, parades, holidays, graduations, etc.) your supposed to be having fun. At my kids parties or Christmas I’m almost always worried about the commercialism and the fakeness of it all; most often I feel super annoyed with my mother, who inevitably gives our children more (in number and costliness) gifts to our children than anyone else including us. It’s kind of depressing. I remind myself of Holden Caulfield in Catcher in the Rye when he’s all worried about those ducks in the pond while driving around in a taxi.
My mother is really into making everything right, choosing the right gift for each child, a gift they will go ape over. Of course this is a dangerous thing, expectations, as one can get disappointed. In these gift giving frenzies I first react to the whole mass of stuff, the commercialism, but then I start to watch my mother and worry about her being disappointed. Without fail I make a rather sarcastic remark, “Boy, I hope we can fit into our car after we put all this in” or “Nothing like investing a ¼ of our income in batteries to run all these toys.” Maybe these comments are to get back at my mother, to say, in effect: “told you not to set your hopes on all this crap.” And maybe they just express my frustration with the pressure and desire to have our lives feel meaningful.
I was thinking about a recent post on nostalgia (Unhip's) and how it ties into the b-day scene. Though I can’t name any one film, I know there have been several films with b-day scenes that induce heavy nostalgia for me. These scenes seem mistily representative of “a” life, an existence as it passes through different stages. I guess that’s what gets me: why can’t I feel some of this dreamy nostalgia-like feeling in the moment? I have to say it is much harder to engage with the moment, to enjoy what’s supposed to be enjoyable, than I thought it would be. I thought somehow it would be easier to find meaning in such important events. Instead the memory of events past or daydreams of moments to come are much more satisfying and real to me.
My mother is really into making everything right, choosing the right gift for each child, a gift they will go ape over. Of course this is a dangerous thing, expectations, as one can get disappointed. In these gift giving frenzies I first react to the whole mass of stuff, the commercialism, but then I start to watch my mother and worry about her being disappointed. Without fail I make a rather sarcastic remark, “Boy, I hope we can fit into our car after we put all this in” or “Nothing like investing a ¼ of our income in batteries to run all these toys.” Maybe these comments are to get back at my mother, to say, in effect: “told you not to set your hopes on all this crap.” And maybe they just express my frustration with the pressure and desire to have our lives feel meaningful.
I was thinking about a recent post on nostalgia (Unhip's) and how it ties into the b-day scene. Though I can’t name any one film, I know there have been several films with b-day scenes that induce heavy nostalgia for me. These scenes seem mistily representative of “a” life, an existence as it passes through different stages. I guess that’s what gets me: why can’t I feel some of this dreamy nostalgia-like feeling in the moment? I have to say it is much harder to engage with the moment, to enjoy what’s supposed to be enjoyable, than I thought it would be. I thought somehow it would be easier to find meaning in such important events. Instead the memory of events past or daydreams of moments to come are much more satisfying and real to me.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Visual rhetoric
I'm swamped with portfolios, a task that just doesn't seem to be congruent with summer. Oh well. I used O'Brien's and Alfano's Envision, a visual rhetoric, for the first time this semester and it's gone quite well. I think (I hope) students have been able to more easily find a unique angle on their research questions, angles that allow them to actually throw something back into the debate rather than pretending like they can fix the problem. Also, in many cases, the visual analysis and production in student papers has lead to more ownership, a sense that they have "crafted" their work in ways that only they could. Above is an example from a paper which argued that one can have a rational belief in God without relying on complicated philosophical treatises. In this example the student has tried to visually represent her critique of the ontological argument for God. The words in the background are complicated explanations of the ontological view.
In another example, one I couldn't figure out how to reproduce here, a student created a paraody of a Jessica Alba cover for Self magazine. In her parody, entitled "REALITY"--Alba's head sits in between "REAL" and "ITY," she found a photo from the same photo shoot and then superimposed her own article titles: "hooked on plastic surgery," "Diet pills might be dangerous," etc.
While I'm leery of giving the visual too much credit (as if writing, as we know it, will soon disappear), I do think composition teachers (as has been said over and over again throughout the years) must allow and prepare students to use visual design and rhetoric in the creation of standard English papers. I know much of this has already occurred in public genre focused courses, but it seems to me that it doesn't necessarily take a public genre to teach and/or make the visual integral to what we write. Of course, as I was discussing with a colleague yesterday, it may take much new learning on our parts to reintegrate and introduce the low-culture/carnivalesque/pop culture into our academic composing.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Top 10 things NOT to expect while backpacking...
...with your children in the Uintas (mostly for men)
10. That kid-safe (no deet) mosquito spray will suffice, allowing you to setup your tent while being swarmed by thousands of the tiny sons of ….
9. That your children will carry their small packs the entire way and consequently that if they do not you will easily, being the manly man you are, be able to carry their packs on your front side or in your hands
8. That you can find time to read Waterman’s Backwoods Ethics and McCarthy’s The Crossing while relaxing in front of a warm fire
7. That your children will surely rather eat a full course, including blueberry cheesecake and spicy kung pao chicken, freeze dried meal (estimated cooking time including water purification: 90 minutes) instead of silly Top Ramen noodles (estimated time: 5 minutes)
6. That camping 50 yards, instead of the required 75, from the trail will be “good enough for the forest ranger,” i.e., “Wow, it’s great you guys brought your small kids out here to experience the great outdoors so we’ll let this infraction go this time”)
5. That repeatedly encouraging your children through positive reinforcement (“You are doing great; now let’s work on moving forward while balancing your pack”) will lead to increased speed and a team-family spirit
4. That your child can, after 10 minutes of instruction, be able to cast a fishing pole into the lake without breaking, tangling, and splashing the entire rod and reel into the lake AND that you will have enough patience to then retrieve the pole and start all over without incurring a sudden and convulsing headache
3. That you can competently and patiently advise your 7-year old daughter in outdoor bathroom practices even if she will not allow you to “look” or get closer than 15 feet even after having major hygienic complications
2. That you can balance a cooking pot on your very small backpacking stove prongs without spilling the water or burning yourself while your children complain they are hungry AND that after spilling all the water twice (laboriously filtered from the lake) you can refrain from saying, “This stupid (bleeping) piece of (bleep)”
1. That after all of the frustrations of family back-packing you most certainly will never take your kids backpacking again OR that you will remember all the hard work the next day after you return which would then save you from ever endeavoring to pull off such an ill-conceived adventure again
10. That kid-safe (no deet) mosquito spray will suffice, allowing you to setup your tent while being swarmed by thousands of the tiny sons of ….
9. That your children will carry their small packs the entire way and consequently that if they do not you will easily, being the manly man you are, be able to carry their packs on your front side or in your hands
8. That you can find time to read Waterman’s Backwoods Ethics and McCarthy’s The Crossing while relaxing in front of a warm fire
7. That your children will surely rather eat a full course, including blueberry cheesecake and spicy kung pao chicken, freeze dried meal (estimated cooking time including water purification: 90 minutes) instead of silly Top Ramen noodles (estimated time: 5 minutes)
6. That camping 50 yards, instead of the required 75, from the trail will be “good enough for the forest ranger,” i.e., “Wow, it’s great you guys brought your small kids out here to experience the great outdoors so we’ll let this infraction go this time”)
5. That repeatedly encouraging your children through positive reinforcement (“You are doing great; now let’s work on moving forward while balancing your pack”) will lead to increased speed and a team-family spirit
4. That your child can, after 10 minutes of instruction, be able to cast a fishing pole into the lake without breaking, tangling, and splashing the entire rod and reel into the lake AND that you will have enough patience to then retrieve the pole and start all over without incurring a sudden and convulsing headache
3. That you can competently and patiently advise your 7-year old daughter in outdoor bathroom practices even if she will not allow you to “look” or get closer than 15 feet even after having major hygienic complications
2. That you can balance a cooking pot on your very small backpacking stove prongs without spilling the water or burning yourself while your children complain they are hungry AND that after spilling all the water twice (laboriously filtered from the lake) you can refrain from saying, “This stupid (bleeping) piece of (bleep)”
1. That after all of the frustrations of family back-packing you most certainly will never take your kids backpacking again OR that you will remember all the hard work the next day after you return which would then save you from ever endeavoring to pull off such an ill-conceived adventure again
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Reading out of despair
My blogger world and real world concerns have converged today. I’ve been frustrated lately (and forever) with my inability to read quickly. So many stacks of books I want to get to but so little time. Part of it is reading speed and part of it is the 7-8 hrs of sleep my body seems to need (I’ve been wondering if caffeine could help me out here) and part of it is my insane need to exercise for too many hrs.
The convergence:
High Touch Megastore (in person): “I just read Harry Potter over the weekend.” It’s like 600 pages.
Another colleague who is already re-reading HP for the second time, “I read it real fast the first time.”
Unhip who blogged about reading Johnson’s Everything that’s bad for you is good in 2.5 hrs. It’s 200 pages.
Signifying Nothing (in-person a few years back) who said he reads more than anyone he knows and who must read fast as he knows way too much about the history of the Catholic church.
Discussion with SR at SLCC about reading strategically in order to stay up with theory in rhet/comp.
Hearing Middlebrow talk about many books he read in an evening or two and, of course, all the while cranking out pages for his dissertation.
As Signifying Nothing indicated in a recent blog, I generally do not like the interactive blog questions (esp ones about music since I know nothing about music—no time to listen to music when I’m trying to finish a 200 page book I’ve been reading for a month) but I must indulge:
1. How fast do you read? If you read fast, have you always been a relatively fast reader or was it something you learned?
2. What reading strategies do you employ in order to read what’s most important? And if you skip/skim/don’t read every word how do you make sure you are still getting it?
3. Do you annotate the books you read? Why or why not? Also, which kinds of books do you annotate and why?
4. How many books do you read each month/year? Are they mostly quick-read novels or some difficult theory, long, laymen’s science, etc.?
5. Honestly, like really honestly, how many hrs of sleep do you need each night?
Sometimes I have a fantasy about reading non-stop until I’ve read everything I have stacked around my house and everything I’ve been planning on reading. Now that's better than any sexual fantasy I can imagine.
Of course this is a ludicrous fantasy but certainly indicates my ever-present, engulfing at times, guilt about not knowing enough.
Crap, I can’t believe I’ve wasted this time writing a neurotic post while I could have been reading: Into the land of Unicorns, The natural history of make-believe, and Patterson’s second book on children’s lit in prep for my children’s lit class in the fall; Aristotle’s Rhetoric so I can say I read the damn thing; my new Runner’s world so I can get pumped up again about exercise; David Quammen’s Monster of God because I love his wry humor and piercing insights; McKibben’s article in the new Harper’s on Christian Paradox because I am a walking Christian paradox; Walk two moons so I can get it back to Unhip; JS Mill’s On Liberty because it’s seminal; The Crossing by McCarthy because I loved All the Pretty Horses; the stack of papers I must have done by tomorrow at 7am because I must…
The convergence:
High Touch Megastore (in person): “I just read Harry Potter over the weekend.” It’s like 600 pages.
Another colleague who is already re-reading HP for the second time, “I read it real fast the first time.”
Unhip who blogged about reading Johnson’s Everything that’s bad for you is good in 2.5 hrs. It’s 200 pages.
Signifying Nothing (in-person a few years back) who said he reads more than anyone he knows and who must read fast as he knows way too much about the history of the Catholic church.
Discussion with SR at SLCC about reading strategically in order to stay up with theory in rhet/comp.
Hearing Middlebrow talk about many books he read in an evening or two and, of course, all the while cranking out pages for his dissertation.
As Signifying Nothing indicated in a recent blog, I generally do not like the interactive blog questions (esp ones about music since I know nothing about music—no time to listen to music when I’m trying to finish a 200 page book I’ve been reading for a month) but I must indulge:
1. How fast do you read? If you read fast, have you always been a relatively fast reader or was it something you learned?
2. What reading strategies do you employ in order to read what’s most important? And if you skip/skim/don’t read every word how do you make sure you are still getting it?
3. Do you annotate the books you read? Why or why not? Also, which kinds of books do you annotate and why?
4. How many books do you read each month/year? Are they mostly quick-read novels or some difficult theory, long, laymen’s science, etc.?
5. Honestly, like really honestly, how many hrs of sleep do you need each night?
Sometimes I have a fantasy about reading non-stop until I’ve read everything I have stacked around my house and everything I’ve been planning on reading. Now that's better than any sexual fantasy I can imagine.
Of course this is a ludicrous fantasy but certainly indicates my ever-present, engulfing at times, guilt about not knowing enough.
Crap, I can’t believe I’ve wasted this time writing a neurotic post while I could have been reading: Into the land of Unicorns, The natural history of make-believe, and Patterson’s second book on children’s lit in prep for my children’s lit class in the fall; Aristotle’s Rhetoric so I can say I read the damn thing; my new Runner’s world so I can get pumped up again about exercise; David Quammen’s Monster of God because I love his wry humor and piercing insights; McKibben’s article in the new Harper’s on Christian Paradox because I am a walking Christian paradox; Walk two moons so I can get it back to Unhip; JS Mill’s On Liberty because it’s seminal; The Crossing by McCarthy because I loved All the Pretty Horses; the stack of papers I must have done by tomorrow at 7am because I must…
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Rexburg, The Tetons, and old age
We're at the in-laws. We enjoyed a great stay in Jackson on Friday and Saturday. I'm not a big fan of the shops--cowboy hats, bags of rocks, and moose decour--but I love going into Teton Park. After years of visiting Jackson, I actually felt like I actually got up in the Teton mountains. My wife's family enjoys eating at Jenny Lake but they are not much for hiking. Since we stayed overnight (very expensive), I was able to do a hike with my two oldest the next morning. We headed up the Death Canyon trail towards Phelps Lake overlook, a breathtaking view and only .9 miles of gradual uphill. From there we went down the switchbacks to the trail junction to Phelps Lake, but instead continued on towards Alaska Basin with a promise to my kids we would go to the lake on the way out. Then we started to ascend at a rapid pace. The rock chucks (at least that's what I call them) kept the kids from thinking about the heat and their aching legs, but that only worked for a mile or two. After some cajoling and putting my almost 8-year old on my back for about 1/3 mile (two steep switchbacks) we made it to the first "top," a basin with a pristine river and a winterized ranger cabin--about 7.5 miles round trip. The kids played in the river while I read for a bit from Nafisi's Reading Lolita in Tehran. After we were to meet up with my wife, youngest son, and the in-laws back at Taggart Lake but they were not there. Thank goodness we'd set-up a secondary plan: if we miss or don't see each other we'll meet back in Rexburng.
Turns out my mother-in-law had forgotten an important medication so they'd all set out for Rexburg at 10am. Her health has detiorated quickly over the last year or so. It doesn't seem fair as she's only in her 60s and has already had to overcome other big life challenges. She doesn't have anything life-threatening but she can't get around too well; she's kind of bent over to the side and is on powerful pain meds. Old age, health problems and the like scare me more than I can even consciously admit. Seeing her in pain and witnessing her frustration about what she can't do has made me realize that getting older demands we expect less of our bodies. I know this is a no-brainer but I just can't get my head around it emotionally. I've probably put too much stock in my running, in running faster, in running farther, in completing some all day adventure. I guess seeing my mother-in-law forces me to admit that my own body is breaking down, that is I can no longer say, "this is just another injury [I currently have a hip issue which caused me to miss an uphill race in Jackson--the original impetus for this whole trip] and I'll surely recover on the other side." There will be a time when accepting less will be the only option. Maybe then I can focus solely on the beauty of a hike in the Tetons without a pang of regret about covering half the distance I could have covered if I were running.
Turns out my mother-in-law had forgotten an important medication so they'd all set out for Rexburg at 10am. Her health has detiorated quickly over the last year or so. It doesn't seem fair as she's only in her 60s and has already had to overcome other big life challenges. She doesn't have anything life-threatening but she can't get around too well; she's kind of bent over to the side and is on powerful pain meds. Old age, health problems and the like scare me more than I can even consciously admit. Seeing her in pain and witnessing her frustration about what she can't do has made me realize that getting older demands we expect less of our bodies. I know this is a no-brainer but I just can't get my head around it emotionally. I've probably put too much stock in my running, in running faster, in running farther, in completing some all day adventure. I guess seeing my mother-in-law forces me to admit that my own body is breaking down, that is I can no longer say, "this is just another injury [I currently have a hip issue which caused me to miss an uphill race in Jackson--the original impetus for this whole trip] and I'll surely recover on the other side." There will be a time when accepting less will be the only option. Maybe then I can focus solely on the beauty of a hike in the Tetons without a pang of regret about covering half the distance I could have covered if I were running.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Lost Love
Even though there is a week left, the Tour is over. Lance will win #7 unless he crashes or gets sick which he won't do. It's a bit of a downer--no more excitement, no big stages to look forward to each day, no more white-knuckled vicarious hill climbs. It's been a good ride. I think it will be a long time before we witness an athlete as consistent and dominant as Lance Armstrong.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Bladders and Dreams
I didn't sleep so well last night. My deteriating bladder woke me up four times. Don't know what's up as I didn't drink a late night coke or coffee. I guess, as my sister-in-law told me today, at our age we start a long journey of doctor visits where they remove bad stuff and try to fix broken stuff. How exciting. My point: when I get up a lot I tend to remember what I was dreaming about. Sometimes my dreams are a mishmash of images and people but last night my dreams were clearly centered on current worries:
New Rooms: In this reoccuring dream, I realize that our house has this whole new part to it that we (don't ask me how) didn't realize it had. This new room is expansive, the very kind of room I've been recently wishing our stupidly laid out 3,000 square ft house doesn't have, the kind of room which can hold a ping-pong or pool table. This dream replayed after one of my peeings but on the 2nd go around the big, yet dank and dusty, room led to an even bigger room. This room was huge, like ballroom huge, with marble walls and pillars. Boy was I excited and then promptly disappointed when I awoke.
I had another great example but I realized it wouldn't be too wise to share it online--never know who is reading this stuff. Probably about two people but ya never know. My first experience with online safety self-censorship.
May my bladder hold tonight.
New Rooms: In this reoccuring dream, I realize that our house has this whole new part to it that we (don't ask me how) didn't realize it had. This new room is expansive, the very kind of room I've been recently wishing our stupidly laid out 3,000 square ft house doesn't have, the kind of room which can hold a ping-pong or pool table. This dream replayed after one of my peeings but on the 2nd go around the big, yet dank and dusty, room led to an even bigger room. This room was huge, like ballroom huge, with marble walls and pillars. Boy was I excited and then promptly disappointed when I awoke.
I had another great example but I realized it wouldn't be too wise to share it online--never know who is reading this stuff. Probably about two people but ya never know. My first experience with online safety self-censorship.
May my bladder hold tonight.
Summer of difference and DifferAnce
Having/making time to read theory:
Currently reading A Teaching Subject by Joseph Harris.. Probably old news to many as it was published in 96 but I'm really taken in by it. Yesterday I was reading his deconstruction of the term community while they were passing the sacrement, the very epitome a "consensus" ritual, in my Mormon ward. I'm intrigued by his discussion of the "public" classroom which is a kind of democratic space but I'm also aware of the critiques of this kind of idealized space. Favorite quote: "I don't want no Jesus in my promised land" (Lester Bangs when discussing the Clash) which Harris then reworks as a commentary on writing classes: "I don't want no Jesus and I don't want no Socrates either."
Speaking of Socrates, I've also made some progress (only like 1400 pages left:) on The Rhetorical tradition by Herzberg and Bizzel. I just finished reading, well if one calls my attempt reading, Phaedrus. I'm amazed at how the issues have stayed the same over so many years, though I have to say I tired quickly of the condescending straw man approach of the dialogues. Had a nice moment when I ran into Theuth and Thamus' discussion of writing: Theuth claims it is the "elixir of memory and wisdom" but Thamus counters "You have invented an elixir not of memory but of reminding." Of course Socrates goes on to compare writing to painting, noting that words can't defend themselves. What interested me in this was I recently finished Stephens's The rise of the image, the fall of the word where he uses Thamus'/Socrates' attack on writing as proof that we often focus on the weaknesses of a new technology rather that its eventual potententialities. Stephens' ultimately argues that we have barely tapped into the potentials of image, video, tv. In this sense the Neil Postmans of the world (and everyday derision of the couch potatoe) are missing the mark just as Socrates was concering writing centuries ago.
I love it when a writer can help me see behind-around-through what I've become used to seeing as normal. But also it's dismaying how much work, time, energy, and luck it takes in order to put into the background a view I've taken up in order to see something anew.
Currently reading A Teaching Subject by Joseph Harris.. Probably old news to many as it was published in 96 but I'm really taken in by it. Yesterday I was reading his deconstruction of the term community while they were passing the sacrement, the very epitome a "consensus" ritual, in my Mormon ward. I'm intrigued by his discussion of the "public" classroom which is a kind of democratic space but I'm also aware of the critiques of this kind of idealized space. Favorite quote: "I don't want no Jesus in my promised land" (Lester Bangs when discussing the Clash) which Harris then reworks as a commentary on writing classes: "I don't want no Jesus and I don't want no Socrates either."
Speaking of Socrates, I've also made some progress (only like 1400 pages left:) on The Rhetorical tradition by Herzberg and Bizzel. I just finished reading, well if one calls my attempt reading, Phaedrus. I'm amazed at how the issues have stayed the same over so many years, though I have to say I tired quickly of the condescending straw man approach of the dialogues. Had a nice moment when I ran into Theuth and Thamus' discussion of writing: Theuth claims it is the "elixir of memory and wisdom" but Thamus counters "You have invented an elixir not of memory but of reminding." Of course Socrates goes on to compare writing to painting, noting that words can't defend themselves. What interested me in this was I recently finished Stephens's The rise of the image, the fall of the word where he uses Thamus'/Socrates' attack on writing as proof that we often focus on the weaknesses of a new technology rather that its eventual potententialities. Stephens' ultimately argues that we have barely tapped into the potentials of image, video, tv. In this sense the Neil Postmans of the world (and everyday derision of the couch potatoe) are missing the mark just as Socrates was concering writing centuries ago.
I love it when a writer can help me see behind-around-through what I've become used to seeing as normal. But also it's dismaying how much work, time, energy, and luck it takes in order to put into the background a view I've taken up in order to see something anew.
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