Waking Up

For the first time in probably 7 or 8 years, I've started a new story.  It'll be the first one I've ever tried writing directly on the computer.  I used to write on legal pads with a pen.  I'd read about other writers producing in that fashion, and promptly aped them, thinking there must be something special about it.  So far, writing on the computer feels miles better.  I tend to edit as I write, so this seems to make more sense for me.

After not having produced any original work in so long, it feels like there's another heart beating again.

I've had this idea stuck in my head for a while.  It's different from the kind of story I've mostly written before.  It's changed my approach a little too.  I'm going to be as patient as possible and see what this yields.

A Zoo In Winter

If I ever made a list of my favorite comic artitsts, one name in the top five would have to be Jiro Taniguchi.  He's an older generation mangaka whose work has enjoyed more exposure in the west over the past 10 years or so, thanks to publishers Fanfare/Ponent Mon.  They've translated and released several of his works in that time.  I've read many of them, and while I don't find all of his stuff interesting at first glance, his style and sense of pace always guarantee I'll give it a try.

The first time I saw his work was in a collection called Hotel Harbor View.  It was a heavily noir story, with violent and sexual overtones that first appeared more than 20 years ago.  It was an example of extremely decompressed artwork, where short bursts of action are depicted over many panels.  The story's long been out of print.  I was only able to find an old copy at a comic shop I used to frequent.  I still have it somewhere in my stack of long boxes in the spare bedroom.  Taniguchi's style was so clean and polished, thoroughly devoid of the manga cliches you can find in so much other work, and yet still retained an unmistakable manga flavor.

I've kept up with much of his work released here in the states, and his latest comes this week from the same publisher.  It's called A Zoo In Winter.  The story is more of an autobiographical piece, concerning the early days in manga of a young artist named Hamaguchi.  He travels to Tokyo in 1967 to become an apprentice to a famous manga artist of the time, helping to draw backgrounds and fills.  Ultimately, it's not satisfying work, and he begins to think of doing his own manga.  His friends try their best to encourage him, but Hamaguchi's real inspiration, his muse, comes in the form of a young woman he's introduced to who suffers from severe health issues.  Their meetings and conversations jump start his imagination, and before long he's making progress on his first original story.  Complications ensue, however, and he finds that he must draw more inspiration from within rather than always relying on his meetings with Mariko.

The couple fall in love, but it's not a conventional romance by any means.  Her health becomes an impediment to any further deepening of the relationship, but the ending doesn't give away what happens beyond that first year together.  Perhaps Taniguchi is planning more installments.

This story was one of the artist's more recent efforts.  It was published in Japan in 2008.  It's much more of a contemplative character study, similar to The Walking Man, an earlier production.  The Walking Man was really no more than the story of a man as he walked through his neighborhood, and the mundane events that occurred.  It sounds stupefyingly boring, but the man's art and pacing made it an engrossing, meditative journey.  I still think it's one of his best.

I enjoyed this effort, though I do find myself missing his more action-oriented work, like Benkei in New York, and Hotel Harbor View.  The man is much older now, well into his 60s, but his artwork is still near his peak.  He probably won't continue to produce much new work in the future, but I still think about what undiscovered gems are yet to be brought over.

And Now--An Old Story

MEMORIES OF A STARGAZER

by

Donald L. Flynn

     His house was a 70-minute drive to the shore of a deep lake. He didn't leave it very often. Groceries and supplies were brought to him by a woman friend who lived a few miles down shore. From some accounts, Alzheimer's was taking him quickly, stealing memories of his days in the lab.

     It was time for an interview, probably his last. Hilversum drove south, through valleys walled by grape fields, trying to get an impression of the old man. His feat, which had won him a Nobel, had led to the discovery of pulsars. Hilversum wasn't sure what pulsars were, he'd forgotten to look it up. He would appear stupid in front of the old scientist. Questions to ask, he thought. The white pad beside him was blank.

     Hilversum's editors had said he could be resentful of the past. Didn't want to relive it because of the envy of peers, how it tore him up inside. Made it impossible to work.

     He mused over an angle for the piece: the demons of success haunt aging stargazer. He wouldn't need to know about pulsars. The real story was the price of fame. The sheets of his pad snapped in the wind. Questions came, urging him to pull over. He took his recorder from under the seat.

     On the other side of a long rise, a town appeared. White, wooden buildings, an abandoned gas station with 30-year-old pumps, new fire hall rooted in sterile gravel. An ancient Coke sign told him he was thirsty. He stopped in a dust cloud. Inside, no air conditioning. The screen door clacked shut behind him. He opened the cooler door, grateful for the billowy coolness that fell out of it, grabbed a bottle of strawberry-flavored mineral water.

     The clerk was a huge woman, stern, hawk-faced. He asked her if he was close to Juniper Lane. She rattled off directions.

     Then she said: "Just get there before nightfall. When the fog rolls in, it's dangerous driving."

     "I'll do that."

     "If it ain't foggy, maybe you'll be able to see the lights."

     "Lights?"

     "Over the lake. They're bright during the summer months."

     "Oh. Where I'm going, I'm sure I'll see quite a few lights."

     The bell signaled his leaving. To his side he saw movement. In the shade of the store was an old husky watching him alertly. One of its eyes was blue. It barked once as he got in the car. He waved to it and drove off, drinking down the mineral water. Ahead of him the road was empty.

     He got lost a number of times. The dirt roads were confusing, perilously narrow. He thought he'd sideswipe an oncoming vehicle. It took some effort to find Juniper Lane. He started thinking about how he would get out.

     The house was not large. A single storey variety of the type that sprang up around the lake in the early '60s. It was tiled a mossy green, making Hilversum think it had risen from the ground, something living. There were few adornments surrounding the house. The yard was small; a brick walk led up to the door.

     Hilversum stepped out of his car, the only one in the driveway. He looked past the house, where the shore started. The silver water rolled indolently up onto the stones. For a while, it mesmerized him. He felt disarmed, the peace stealing his resolve. The drive had left him tired.

     He slammed the car door shut. Barking responded from inside the house. It was high-pitched, that of a small dog. He climbed three wooden steps and briefly rang the doorbell. With the barking, the act seemed redundant.    

     He waited.

     For a long time, there was no answer. Just the insistent yelping. He rang again, a ridiculous thing to do. Creaks came from inside the house, a measured thump. It got louder.

     Then the scientist stood before him, tall, looking very like his own father. Bushy, white eyebrows, thick like a Russian's. He extended a hand. It was strong, the bones felt solid. The joints were swollen by arthritis. At his feet, a miniature collie sniffed warily at Hilversum's loafers. It stood against his leg, tail wagging.

     "I hope you found it okay," said the old man.

     "No problem."

     "You can call me Travis."

     "Bob."

     "I have some soup on the stove. Would you like a bowl?"

     "No thanks. I ate before I left."

     The astrophysicist moved slowly, with the aid of a cane. He poured a bowl for himself and they settled in the den. The walls there were lined with books. Hilversum was drawn to them, the old paper smell calling up so much. He scanned the titles: Nichomachean Ethics, Broca's Brain, Alice in Wonderland, Sonnets of the Portuguese. He wanted to hold them.

     "I've read them all."

     "You collect old editions?"

     "Yes."

     "They're impressive."

     He became conscious of the silence and tore himself away from the books. He sat down, his questions on the pad on his lap, the recorder whirring on the table between them.

     It was a life story the old man told, maybe more than Hilversum wanted, but he'd rather have more than less. He checked off the questions as they were answered, making a few notes. The scientist was a polished communicator, having spent his last years on the lecture circuit. His voice was deep and smooth. He had known no pressure or deadlines for a long time, the placidity visible on his face. It was as serene as the lake surface outside the window.

     The ripples began to appear after he won the Nobel. He had to be prompted to give details about the rift with his colleagues. They came haltingly. He didn't hesitate to name names, to Hilversum's surprise, though only one of them was dead. Travis looked out of the window as he spoke, his faded blue eyes wilting under the remembrance. Hilversum wrote manically in his notebook.

     "I'm sure this is the meat of your article that you're looking for, is it not? Nobody ever bothers me until Nobel time, and then the phone starts ringing. I will come clean about it now. I'm too old to hide it anymore."

     "Well, there are the readers who will read the article for your discoveries, but most will want to know about the conflict. I know it seems like an awfully low road. There's a deeper story though, and that's the underdog who sticks to his principles. Sort of a physicist's version of 'High Noon.' "

     "Sounds more exciting than it really is."

     "I try to make people feel as they're living it with you. If they can get a sense of the immediacy of the events, they'll be very sympathetic to your story."

     "I don't need the sympathy," said Travis, turning.

     "What are your reasons for talking?"

     Travis lowered his head and walked back to the chair. There was dried soup on the front of his red plaid shirt. After he sat, his breathing was still audible.

     "I'm doing this for me. I have a feeling I'm not long for this world, so I'm putting it on record. My dying confession."

     "Dying, sir?"

     "I'm sure you've heard that I have a degenerative disease by now. It's true. The same one that a former president suffered from. If you ask me, he had it when he was still in office. It's a race to see which gets me first, the disease or a bottle of Nembutal. And don't give me the 'it's not worth it' speech, I may be joking."

     Hilversum was at a loss. The comment, the offhandedness of it, froze him. He examined his pencil closely.

     "It must be very difficult," he said at last.

     "Oh no, it's easy to lie in bed all night, sweating. I won't get into that however. What's next, more about the intrigue in the scientific community during my tenure? More elaboration on that?"

     "I won't go on record with your physical condition, if that's what you'd prefer. That can stay here in this room."

     "That doesn't bother me," Travis said abruptly, "just don't tell them I've been having suicidal thoughts. They're not as uncommon as we think. I suppose you've never been troubled by them."

     "I was, when I was thirteen. It's a trying age for a lot of people."

     "So is sixty-six. I'll give you something to look forward to, how about that?"

     Travis went on about the professional quarrels. Outside, the light diminished. Evening spread from the dark places in the nearby woods. A breeze rushed through the pines, sounding like a forced breath through clenched teeth. Hilversum wrote many notes, partly as insurance against recorder malfunction, but his interest was fueled as well. The story began to write itself, a thing Hilversum rarely experienced. Inside him, his heart leapt.

     As he wrote, he heard, "Here, let me look at your questions."

     Travis extended a knotty hand towards him, gravity in his expression.

     "Why?" he asked defensively.

     "Just curiosity. I want to see how reporters write these things down. And it might help me. If you don't mind, of course."

     "Not at all." Hilversum gave him the legal pad.

     Travis slipped on a pair of black, horn-rimmed bifocals and read down the page. His lips moved faintly. His aspect metamorphosed before Hilversum's eyes. The scholarly pose was there, identical to a famous picture of him in a 1964 issue of Life magazine. Only the black hair was missing. The lines, hinted at then, were deeper, channels dredged by the engines of thought.

     His brows joined as he reached the bottom.

     " 'Pulsars' with a question mark. What does that mean?"

     "A sign of my unpreparedness." Hilversum cleared his throat. "I had meant to look it up before I got here. Obviously, I didn't get to a dictionary in time."

     "You mean we've been discussing the cornerstone of my research and you had no idea what they are? Why didn't you say something? You needn't have worried, I wouldn't let the shock register on my face."

     Travis laughed, the notes of his voice deep and sharp, pounding the air. "How amusing," he repeated to himself.

     "That's something I can take care of after we finish. I won't bother you for a simple definition. I'd like to shed some light on a point you made about the flaw in Kragen's research that took him--"

     "Do you know what we thought they were at first?"

     Travis was leaning forward, hands in a prayer position, the glasses dangling from his thumbs. His eyes seemed lit by an urgent memory.

     "Pardon?"

     "We thought they were beacons. Signposts erected by intergalactic travelers to help map out the galaxies. Lighthouses on the shores of a black, infinite sea guiding lightspeed cruisers toward safety, maybe toward home. You see?! We were certain we had the first pure evidence of a more advanced race of aliens that had charted, or had begun charting, the universe. Later study revealed this to be impossible, but initially we were like children with a secret."

     "I'm not sure if I follow," said Hilversum.

     "Pulsars are bodies of incredibly dense matter, the remnants of a dead star, similar to black holes. Black holes are so dense that their gravity permits nothing to escape its influence, hence their name. Pulsars are not quite as dense. In their case we find a short, regular pulse of energy that escapes the gravitational field. The burst is so regular that, for a short time, we gave credence to the idea of it as a space 'buoy'."

     Travis sat back. He looked at the floor, shiny-eyed, vacant.

     "At that moment, we felt as if we sat at the right hand of God. We had reached across heaven and pulled back a curtain. It's difficult . . . to retain perspective after witnessing something like that."

     Hilversum was caught off guard. He waited for the old man to convulse into laughter, to let him in on the joke. In his mind, these pragmatic young giants did not indulge in belief in aliens. He was drawn to images from fifties' sci-fi B-movies. The feeling of incongruity was overwhelming.

     Maybe it was the disease. Travis' curdling brain confusing his serious work with the UFO paranoia prevalent during his youth.

     "But you found out it was a natural phenomenon?"

     "Yes. The odds say that there has to be someone else out there, very likely more advanced. This wasn't our proof though. Ever do any reports on UFOs, Bob?"

     "No, sir. To be honest, I have trouble accepting the theory of aliens trying to contact us."

     "Why is that?"

     "It just--seems like such a long shot, I guess."

     "Oh, you're absolutely right, it is a long shot. Put together two advanced intellects, however, and the possibility is there. I have friends who've worked for NASA for years, they could tell you stories that would make the hair on your neck stand out. It would have to be off the record. They won't tell me why; if the government is involved, it has to be shrouded in mystery."

     "Have you seen anything?"

     Travis was still, as if he hadn't heard the question. Hilversum was on the brink of rephrasing it.

     "What time is it?" Travis said.

     "Ten after nine. Boy, I didn't realize it was so late."

     "It's a gorgeous evening. Would you mind taking a couple chairs out to the dock and sitting? It's a summer ritual for me."

     "Sounds like a fine idea."

     The lake was smooth as marble, the sunset wind now gone. A crackle overhead. Hilversum looked up at the blue pallid glow of a bug zapper. Lightning bugs shone briefly in the air before him. Into the woods their flares danced, random eyes flashing in crazy paths. Against his will, Hilversum imagined things, remembered childhood demons. He wanted to take a vacation after this assignment.

     Splashes, as fish jumped periodically. Few lights on the opposite shore. It was less developed. Beyond them, the hills rose, a black implacable wall. Night air was thick and sweet here, far from any city, the effect making him sluggish. He moved under water.

     They sat on the narrow dock, Hilversum gazing out over the lake, feeling in miniature, on the edge of a huge table. The dark air embraced him.

     Travis spoke of fishing on this lake as a teenager. His family had a cottage several miles south of here, when Truman was president. It was torn down after his mother died.

     "They didn't know it then, but I think it was Alzheimer's that took her. I know what's coming for me."

The moon was just past new, the shape of a sharp crescent. Above the hills. Hilversum looked down at the other docks, reaching from the shore. A dark figure moved on one of the more distant jetties. Voices floated in from that direction, a party spilling out into the night.

     "I have seen things, Bob. A lot that I can't explain. My job was looking at the sky, I was bound to see something. Most of it was garden variety stuff, like you'd see on the news. There are plenty of hoaxes, but I believe a lot is honestly perplexing."

     "So you've seen strange discs in the sky, flying hubcaps, that sort of thing?"

     "All of it unexplainable. I'm supposed to have the explanations! You've seen the Mars photographs?"

     "No."
     "The pyramids on Mars. The structure that resembles a huge face, the canals. That planet has ice caps for God's sake, you can't tell me it's always been barren."

     Hilversum feared losing the thread of the interview. This speculation was a sidetrack. He waited for Travis to pause, for an opportunity to redirect the subject.

     "The first time I saw the lights was here, at the old cottage after my parents moved here. Two of them, and they didn't behave like aircraft. They still don't. Look to the south there, just over that peak. You'll see them."

     Hilversum followed the scientist's outstretched arm. To the south he saw the star-rich sky, nothing more. He scanned slowly, top to bottom, left to right. One light moved. It moved in short, rapid bursts of speed. Impossible speed for a distant object. The light it emitted was pink.

     A second light began moving in the same fashion. Between movements the lights would hover for breathless moments. Otherwise they moved at random; sometimes it appeared they collided.

     Hilversum reached out towards them, waving, as if they were bright winged insects in the air before him. His reaction was an odd mixture of disbelief and fear. The sensations threatened to rise up and overwhelm him.

     "I've seen these two every summer of my life since I was eleven, with the exception of 1969. The summer we went to the moon. I don't know what they are. Everybody who lives here has seen them. Got any theories?"

     A thought struck him.

     "This lady in a store mentioned lights. I thought she meant stars. Falling stars."

     "Are you still skeptical?" Travis asked.

     Hilversum had lost sense of time. It felt like hours before they disappeared. First one, then the other. He heard Travis again, sounding distant and vague.

     "I hope I'm still around when they land."

*

Back to Samsara

It's been a summer not unlike the stock market lately.  The highest highs followed by typical lows.  There are times when I start to think about that old saying about the weather in Rochester--"We have two seasons...winter and July."  Obviously that's an exaggeration, but after the extraordinary prolonged heat of July, where records were broken, we now find ourselves well into a recognizable August.  The rains have returned, which is good, but so have the cooler temps.  We've had a number of days in the 70s again, even one where the high barely reached the 70s.  I would love a less precipitous fall toward autumn coolness.  I'm afraid I wait in vain for that to happen around here.  Especially now that the weather seems so much more volatile now due to global warming.

We were told at work today that our hours may be cut.  The schedule for the project I'm working on has been pushed ahead by a few months.  The budget remains the same, however.  We were warned that corners have to be cut somehow.  Our parent company is looking for ways to alleviate the squeeze.  I'll pray for us all that they can offer something.  I think I could survive on working just four days a week, but it would be tight financially.  Life would certainly be a lot less fun.

There was worse news though.  We received an e-mail that the sangha is now officially "homeless."  I'm thinking this must be related to the legal decision we've been waiting for.  On Sunday, we're meeting at a church on Park Avenue to discuss the next move.  I'll be there.  I've been going to White Lotus for almost eight years now.  The sangha is one of the three jewels.  I'll pray more fervently that we can find our way home again.

Hottest Day of the Year

That's what it felt like today.  It was officially 98 at the airport, but my car thermometer read 100 degrees when I left work at 4:30.  It may have been even hotter earlier than that.

I delayed my run until 7pm tonight.  It was still in the mid-90s at that point as I trudged around the track at the nearby middle school.  I started out in a tank top, but that soon came off.  I couldn't go much farther than the 3.75 miles I managed.  I walked home and took the coldest shower ever.  The previous record for that had been last Saturday.  Finally, the summer of my dreams has reached western New York.

It comes at a price though.  This has been fueled by the drought in the lower midwest.  The area is so dry, there is no moisture to cool the air flowing up from the southwest out of Mexico.  It's given rise to what meteorologists have been calling a "heat dome" that has slowly traveled across the country.  This must've been why temperatures were so much warmer in the 1930s as well.  I've seen so many heat records dating back to that decade, the time of the dust bowl.  We created a new heat record today.

What a far cry from summer of 2009.  I was positively bitter after that summer.  I felt cheated.  Two years later, I find humans and mother nature colluding to make up for it.  I'll be ready for winter this year, I know that much.

Debt and Default

We're, what, two weeks away from the government defaulting on its debt?  I thought we'd have an agreement by now, but Republicans still refuse to act like adults.  I've been reading and hearing reports that the main obstacles to common sense are the 87 freshman congressidiots who were elected last year.  Thanks, American electorate.  Your "protest vote" has officially threatened our economy and our country's stature in the world with complete disaster.  I'm still trying to work out the logic of that vote.  "Hmm...the economy's just beginning to recover thanks to President Obama's policies.  I think I'll put a stop to that by voting for the party that got us into the mess in the first place.  Yeah."

Here are the facts.  The debt ceiling has been raised when necessary by administrations of both parties.  If we want to keep what healthy economy we do have, then this has to be done before the deadline.  There is a better way to cut the deficit--raise taxes on the wealthy.  But Republicans refuse to do that because the wealthy are one of their prime benefactors.  You'll hear baloney about how we shouldn't raise taxes on "job creators".  Only 5% of the wealthy can actually be credited with creating any jobs though.  Most of the extra money they get, they keep and spend on themselves, not on you or me.  Plus, the Bush tax cuts have been around for quite a few years now.  During the Bush administration, this country had the lowest job creation period of any since World War II.  Sounds to me like the tax cuts were very ineffective.  I can remember getting my paltry $300 check when the first round of cuts went through in 2001.  I wanted to send it back to the government in exchange for some real economic improvements.  The 2003 cuts were even worse, as they focused mostly on the wealthy, who'd already enjoyed cuts two years previously.  Add to these the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq (the second completely arbitrary and unnecessary) and the unfunded Medicare Part D law, all courtesy of Bush, and you have the seeds for our deficit today.  Bush left office with a 1.5 trillion dollar deficit!!  How come Republicans weren't whining then??  And I'm tired of hearing the words "failed stimulus."  Firstly, the stimulus had been reduced from its original amount.  So its power was diluted right from the outset...by Republicans.  Secondly, Bush sent out the first stimulus.  He acted because failure to act would've meant an even worse recession, or depression.  During the time the stimulus was in effect, the unemployment rate did go down.  Now it's stalled however, and I blame Obama.  That's right.  Because he's spent too much time trying to compromise with Republicans, who clearly wouldn't know the country's best interests if it clobbered them over the head.

If we keep electing tea partiers to office, my fears for the future of the country have just grown exponentially.  They appear to be the modern equivalent of the Know-Nothing Party, an organization from the mid-1800s that formed to resist immigration from Irish and German Catholics.  Like the tea partiers, they were fueled by irrational fear.  But the name in particular seems to be very applicable, since tea party politicians seem to know nothing about reality.  Their "solutions" fly in the face of facts and common sense.  It's as if they still think it's 1955 and we can roll back government to the size it was then.  That we can make the minorities hide again and be a lily white nation, wearing plaid dresses and overalls, and be blissfully ignorant of all the problems that the nation had.  It's a narcissist fantasy.

I'm relying on Democrats taking more of a stand in the months to come.  They have to, or we're doomed.  I last voted Republican in 1992, when the moderate wing of the party still existed.  It was just for one candidate, Amory Houghton I believe.  I would never vote for one now.  It's been hijacked by extreme elements, and resembles in many ways the fascist movements in Europe in the 30s, or the Bolsheviks in Russia.  It's like one person commented during the 2004 Presidential campaign, on the prospect of Bush winning again.  "If you're not scared, you're not paying attention."  Amen.

Obsession

Okay.  They need to get these back on Wegmans' shelves pronto!

It's been over a couple weeks now since I've seen them...and I miss them terribly.  How dare you, Nonni's!!  Get me hooked and then force me to go cold turkey.  I'll do anything for a hit...er, I mean a box.  C'mon!  They're still on your website, for fuck's sake!  I know the world hasn't run out of chocolate yet.  I see a ton of it in other products there.  Why not these??

Alright.  Coming down.  Centering.  They'll be back, it's just a matter of time. I can hold out.  It's just dessert, right?  Right.  A dessert that infuses my whole being with light and joy...that makes me see beauty in the ugliest places on earth...that makes me think I'm a good and successful human being, at least for the two minutes it takes me to wolf it down.  Yes, I crash into an abyssal depression.  Until the next hit.  I mean, box.

Solstice

Happy Solstice!

I decided to observe the longest day of the year by going for a hike tonight with the Meetup group.  There were close to 70 people for this one, and I got to talk to a couple of interesting women.  I hope to see them again at another hike soon.

The only way I made it out was by going in early to work today for a meeting.  I got out earlier than usual, squeezed in my usual run, wolfed down dinner, then headed out to Seneca Park.  I can honestly say I'm tired after a nearly 4 mile run and a 2 hour hike.  By the end, my legs were moaning at me to stop.  I flashed back to being a kid again and getting that feeling when you were spent and you just wanted to flop down right where you were.  Had to wait until I got home though.

I wait many long, cold months for this time, and watch the days lengthen with relish.  Now the cycle reverses and we lose daylight in tiny increments from now until December.  Still, there is glorious summer to look forward to.  All three months of it.  Let's see what I can do with this year's edition.

Energy Surpluses and Shortages

Just finished working out and completely unaware of where the energy is coming from this evening.  Usually on a hot, humid night like this, I feel spent...with little left in the tank.  Maybe it's all the soda I had.  Or the residual effects of the bagel slathered with butter I had this morning.  Wherever it came from, I won't complain.  I stopped at Wegmans on the way home from work to pick up some things, only to find all the traffic lights in the general area dark.  Wegmans was pretty dark as well, and all the frozen foods were off-limits, covered up in an effort to trap the cold for as long as possible.  I got what I could, but had to leave some things behind.

The spring has been mostly cold and wet again.  The heat has finally arrived in response to my earnest prayers.  We've had a couple days touch 90 already.  Yesterday I ran down Jackson Rd. in full view of a merciless sun, sweating mightily but plowing through nearly 4 miles at a steady pace.  If this were September I might be weary of it.  After a bitter winter and an awful spring though, my body is absorbing the heat like a sponge.  All the better to store up for the fall and winter to come.

I'm reading a short novel called Snow Country right now which is really brilliant.  It won the Pulitzer Prize for Literature in 1968.  I picked it up at a used book sale at work.  It was a dollar, more than the 75 cent cover price.  Well worth it, however.  It's a small story about a man from Tokyo who visits Japan's snow country every year for a getaway.  Snow country is in the northwestern area of the country, where the Siberian winds cross the sea to slam against the mountains there and dump fantastic amounts of snow.  He develops a relationship with a young geisha at the inn where he stays.  The dialogue is pitch perfect, almost minimalist.  The author, Yasunari Kawabata, throws in delicate descriptions of the landscape and insect fauna to paint a rich picture of the place and the people.  It's only 142 pages, which is the only flaw I can find in the novel.  Calling it a flaw is not really accurate though.  The brevity of the story only increases the enjoyment of every carefully chosen word.  I'd read a blog in a Japanese English language website that mentioned this book, and I'd kept thinking about it for a couple weeks, right up until I ran across an old copy of it at the sale.  Guess I was meant to read it.  An incident like this always makes me wonder how much good stuff is out there that's now out of print and I've missed.  It's frustrating to contemplate.

As for my own writing recently, you're still looking at it.  Yeah, I know.

Apprendre le francais

For a long time, I've wanted to learn French.  I started doing just that a few weeks ago.  Teaching myself with the help of a book and Google Translate (to get pronunciation).  So far, I've cracked the surface.  I'm starting small and branching outward.  All the chapters in the book start out with a paragraph in French, mostly untranslated.  Some of the words and phrases are translated, but most aren't.  When I got to the second chapter's paragraph, I was a little shocked at how much I could read of it.  It's feeding my enthusiasm to keep going.  That's crucial, because before I read that paragraph, I was wondering what I'd gotten into.

I hope to be somewhat fluent in six months.  It'll be a challenge to maintain it.  I don't have a reason to speak French on any kind of regular basis.  But I can seek out French language news sites, read French books, watch more French movies.  These can help.  Once I can get to a certain level, I'll be able to move to the French Riviera and not worry about how to communicate.  Step 2 in this plan is, of course, winning the lottery.

The War of Southern Aggression

Today is the 150th anniversary of the beginning of the Civil War.

As a kid, moreso as a teenager, I had a very focused interest on World War II.  I remember that my grandparents had a set of World War II encyclopedias that dated back to the 50s.  I would grab them from the bookcase they were in and look at them obsessively.  I read nonfiction books on the war that I bought at the local drugstore.  Bantam paperbacks were my favorite.  Every month, they seemed to have a new book out by a veteran about their corner of the global conflict.  I devoured so many of them.

By contrast, the Civil War held very little interest.  When my mother and I lived in Delaware, my class took a field trip to Pea Patch Island, a small dot of land located in the middle of the Delaware River.  It was a Union fort during the war, and held Confederate prisoners.  It is marked in my memory as a cold, dark place.  The old prison cells were cast in impenetrable shadows, the walls covered with slime.  I couldn't imagine anyone staying in them.  There wasn't much to see there by the time I had arrived.  The highlight of my visit was a stop at the gift store, where I was able to purchase a couple ceramic figurines--a Union officer and soldier.  I wasn't at all interested in any Confederate troops.  After all, they were the bad guys, fighting to keep a race of people enslaved, and they were rightfully the losers.  Until presently, that was probably the peak of my interest in the war.  Apart from a children's book which told the story of the battle of Gettysburg, and contained the full text of Lincoln's address, I had nothing else regarding that period in history.

The identification with the moral stance of the North made sense to my childish outlook.  That never changed, however.  I still feel strongly about it.  It boggles my mind how a vast section of the country could've fought and shed so much blood over such an inherently evil institution as slavery.  PBS recently replayed Ken Burns' documentary about the war.  I watched much of it with renewed curiosity as the anniversary approached.  It's scary to think how many victories the South tallied up in the first few years.  As Lincoln struggled to find a general who could properly wield the Union armies, which in many battles outnumbered the Rebels, he despaired of ever gaining the upper hand.  The pivotal fight of the war, Gettysburg, was exactly what the North needed at the time.  Robert E. Lee's air of invincibility had been shattered, and the tide at last began to turn, though it wouldn't be the end of Confederate victories.  It wasn't clear that the North had the war sewn up until at least late 1864.



Sherman's March to the Sea



As Burns' epic account wound to a close, I couldn't help but feel immense righteousness and vindication in Sherman's march to the sea.  He left a trail of destruction unparalleled on this continent, while the hugely diminished Rebel armies bounced off his flanks like flies.  After reaching Savannah, he turned north towards South Carolina, where the fever of secession had been born.  His troops' wrath was multiplied there.  Speaking of his men, he said, “The whole army is burning with an insatiable desire to wreak violence upon South Carolina. I almost tremble for her fate.”  Whenever I thought about what the South was fighting for, and the enthusiasm with which it set about fighting, thinking some God was on its side, I could feel the desire that those Union soldiers must've felt.  Ironically, southerners who like to make themselves feel better often refer to the conflict as the "War of Northern Aggression," when it was actually the South who fired the first shot.  Even today, many in the south try to re-characterize the war as a battle for states rights.  But this has always been a code phrase for racism.  Rational beings know the main reason this war was fought.

The South's intransigence was a heavy price for the nation to pay.  An incredible 620,000 casualties on both sides, not counting civilian deaths.  Reconstruction in the years after failed, and segregation and further murder and oppression of blacks would go on for another century.  On the other hand, it propelled the country toward industrialization at light speed.  America would no longer be an agrarian society.  It sowed the seeds for our dominance in the decades to come.  I also believe, at least until the Second World War, that it cured us of being a militaristic society.  We too easily forget history though.

Now that the sesquicentennial is here, and I'm alive to see it, I'm going to take a closer look at at this war.  I'm thinking of taking a trip down to Gettysburg and visiting the battlefield as well.  The divisive nature of that point in history seems to mirror the present circumstances we find ourselves in politically.  Having our first black president imbues the struggle with that much more meaning.

Congolese Death Virus

Recovering from what has to be the worst stomach virus I've ever encountered.  10 solid hours of both vomiting and diarrhea.  I was seriously considering calling 911 at one point, but I held out and suffered through.  I'm feeling better today, though I still have a bit of discomfort, probably from gas.  I only went to work because I don't get paid for sick days.  I barely had an appetite.  I can eat solid food again though, and keep it down.  It's times like these when you learn to appreciate the basic things (like healthy digestion).

I always find myself wondering where I got a bug after the fact.  Was it at Bruegger's on Sunday afternoon, when I got a bagel sandwich for dinner?  Or was it at Wegmans earlier that day?  I'm not sure what the incubation time is for a stomach bug, but it's probably not too long.

I should be back up to 100% tomorrow.  In the meantime, it's a good thing I live alone.  No one could stand to be in this house with me tonight.  There was better air quality in northeastern France in 1916.

Catching Up

I'm a little over a month into my new job.

I work for a company that makes blood analyzers.  These are complex machines that are able to perform multiple tests on scores of blood samples at one time.  Mostly these tests have to do with ascertaining immunity.  The handful of us who were hired at the same time have just been helping out on updates so far...pitching in to make sure they go out on time.  The big project we were hired for, however, is about to begin.

This project is an analyzer that is a combination of two existing machines.  There are a number of reasons they want to create it, besides the obvious one of combining the best of two worlds.  We had a kick-off meeting on Friday for the members of our team who would be working on it.  It became apparent at the meeting that those of us who are new would be expected to do some of the technical writing for the publications associated with the device.  This was surprising to me.  It wasn't mentioned at my interview, at least, that we would be participating in any of the writing.  Technical writing is something I've never done before, and it's a very specialized form of writing with stringent rules.  I should be able to do it...I just wasn't prepared to be thrown into it on this project.

This week starts out three days of meetings at the office involving many more people for the project.  There is a palpable air of expectation and import surrounding these meetings.  I'm a little nervous about all of it.  Starting a new job is certainly an anxious event...being part of the next big thing for the company is all that and a little more.  I look forward to the challenge though.  I've felt energized since beginning this new phase of my work life, and that feeling continues as I head into this uncharted territory.

* * *

I began running outside again in late February.  Always a relief when I get to that point.  After more than two months, I was growing tired with the repetition on the treadmill.  The incentive to run diminishes when the scenery around you never changes, and your view is seriously limited by four rather drab walls.  I went to a movie and dinner with an old friend last night.  We ate at Chili's, and my meal wasn't a heavy one on its own.  The dessert I had though rendered that consideration pointless.  They have something called a Chocolate Chip Paradise Pie that really lives up to its name.  A chocolate chip brownie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream sitting on top, covered with wavy tendrils of chocolate syrup.  After all that, I was completely beyond any notion of satisfaction.  I was your typical American glutton.  I hadn't been able to run during the day due to the steady rain, but I had noticed that it had lessened greatly when I got home from dinner.  Despite it being 9:15pm, I suited up and went for a run.  Running on a full stomach is a very uncomfortable feeling.  I felt like I'd eaten bricks not long into it and well into the night.  I felt better by the time I went to bed though, and slept deeply.  I love running at odd times.  That late on a Saturday night, the windows were full of warm light, and the houses seemed to rest in a statelier repose, as if thankful not to have to shrug off the bitter, icy winds for a change.  Torrents of rainwater rushed through the storm drains I passed.  When I threw up the shades in my bedroom the next morning, a new blanket of white had replaced the soggy ground.  I went out later and shoveled my driveway...again.  I hope it's the last time for the season.

Transition

Entering a rare period of major transition now. I'm leaving the job I've held for the last 20 years and moving on to a new one. At one point, I thought I'd be able to retire from where I am currently, but the outsourcing disease has hit the legal publishing industry now too. Americans have aspired to a better life for decades now, and have achieved it, but like all phenomena, it too possesses the quality of impermanence. CEOs think we're too expensive, and that they can get just as much quality from outside the border, for far less money. I can't help but want to see it fail spectacularly.

I was very nervous heading into this job in my mid-20s. I'd only worked in retail before that. Having a degree helped, but I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever get credit for it. I recall the opening days of this job, so many years ago. The first Bush was president and the first Gulf War was still a few months away. I got very comfortable in all that time. It really was a different era then.

I thought I would be more nervous now than I am.  I guess two decades in a corporate setting with some degree of success has a way of bestowing some confidence in a callow young man. The time just feels right for this. I can't escape that feeling, no matter how much I think about it. Until Feb. 1st, I have a week or so to relax, reflect, and prepare. It's time to bring a new job to the path...to regard it all as illusory, yet give forth my best effort. This dream of life continues.

Gateway Reading

Books figure heavily in my life.  What book led me onto the Buddhist path?

That's easy.

I owe Shunryu Suzuki so much, that I'll never be able to repay.  May this book benefit countless beings.

2010 At The Movies: Altered Perceptions

On average, I make it to the theater about 9 or 10 times a year. I watch many more films through rental, but I still enjoy the theater experience for the most part. On my old blog, I always included an end-of-year list of what I saw in the theaters. It's not a best-of...it's every movie I saw there, since I see so few. I'm discerning about what I go to see though, so they are all decent films. Here was 2010 at the movies:

The Book of Eli

An apocalyptic tale directed by the Hughes Brothers (From Hell) starring Denzel Washington. Very stylized violence, as you'd expect from this directing pair, and Washington does a lot with a spare role. The story did seem a bit thin at times, but I enjoyed the atmosphere, as well as Gary Oldman in the role of villain. One early fight scene was filmed strictly in silhouette under a bridge. The desert setting and the blazing guns helped to heat up a mid-January showing.

The Lovely Bones

Peter Jackson's adaptation of the Alice Sebold novel, about a girl who is raped and murdered, and her experiences in the hereafter. There was less of the vision of Heaven than I'd hoped for in the movie, but Jackson depicted them with sharp imagination. They were the movie's highlights. It was tough for the reality-based segments to match up, but the actors performed gamely. I didn't read the book, and I don't like comparing books to movies anyway...but I thought it was worth a drive.

Shutter Island

Another film dealing with altered perceptions, Scorsese's Shutter Island marked another high point for the director. He's been on a roll the past decade. This one concerns Leo DiCaprio as a cop, traveling to an offshore asylum to investigate the disappearance of a patient. All is not as it appears, however. I suspected the denouement early on in the movie, but I enjoyed the unspooling of the narrative nonetheless. Many of Scorsese's films play like homages to the directors of his youth, this one maybe moreso than others. Mark Ruffalo has an underappreciated supporting role.

Kick Ass

Based on a Mark Millar graphic novel, this story was about a regular kid who decides to youtube his heroic impulse and becomes a viral celebrity. He adopts a super identity and ineptly attempts to fight crime...until he joins forces with a younger girl who really has the chops to beat up bad guys. Nicolas Cage plays the girl's father, and is himself a crime fighter in the Batman mold. Hit Girl, played by Chloe Moretz, is a foul-mouthed heroine who appears very innocent and normal in her more mild-mannered guise. The film was directed with kinetic and edgy joy by Matthew Vaughn, the guy who was originally named to direct the first X-Men film. Here, we get a glimpse of how he might've handled that one.

Inception

Christopher Nolan's project between Batman films. This one was a mind bender, a film that played with time and space to the point where hotel hallways spun like giant lottery ball barrels. This conceit really becomes the centerpiece of the film, while many of the characters go undeveloped. This was a flaw, but not enough to spoil the experience for me. My brain enjoyed the puzzle, and the effects were dazzling. Special kudos to the score, composed by Hans Zimmer. It was a perfect match for the visual brawn of the movie.

The American

After the requisite summer blockbuster, it was time to go small again. Despite the title, this movie took place in Italy and had a very European sensibility. George Clooney plays an assassin trying to get away from his chosen career, only to be drawn back in for one more job. Breathtaking shots of the Italian countryside alternate with life in a small Italian town as Clooney tries to blend in. The movie has the feel of an old novel, with spare dialogue and long stretches of quiet while the action plays out patiently. Directed by Anton Corbijn, who used to be a renown photographer (much of it for the band U2). A very satisfying story.

The Social Network

David Fincher, who made one of my favorite movies (Fight Club), checks in with this film about the origins of Facebook. Written by Aaron Sorkin, of West Wing and Sports Night fame, the dialogue is typically his, with the first 10 minutes or so being delivered so fast by the actors they barely have time to catch their breath. A more complete review is below. This one may get nominated for an Oscar, though I'm not sure it's up to that caliber. But Oscar seems to have become less exclusive these past couple years. Very much worth seeing though.

127 Hours

Danny Boyle is another director I pay attention to, and this is his film about the true story of Aron Ralston, a hiker who forgets to tell someone where he's going for the weekend. As a result, he loses his arm. Doyle turns a potentially very claustrophobic subject into something far more expansive and engrossing. We learn how even the smallest of decisions can have a huge impact. The camera minutely examines the small stage of Ralston's prison, from the ants who crawl over his body, to the urine he has to drink out of his water bottle just to stay alive. Boyle is responsible for another of my favorite films, Trainspotting. He's another director who's been on a roll lately. I hope it continues.

True Grit

Rounded out the year on the last day with this western from the Coen brothers. The Coens and I have often had a love/hate relationship over the years. Films of theirs I love include Miller's Crossing, The Hudsucker Proxy, and A Serious Man. The hate list includes Fargo, No Country for Old Men and Fargo. Yeah, I really didn't like Fargo. This one is a gem, however. They follow the book closely and keep much of its poetic language. There's real heartbreak and lovely western vistas shot by veteran DP Roger Deakins, who's worked with the Coens often. It was a packed house when I went to see a matinee. It may be the Coens most popular film after all is said and done, and it outshines the original by a country mile. Sorry, Duke.