Leap day

Ooops! missed a day ... jumped right past it. Hey, that's why they call it Leap Day, don't they. I mean, that is what they call this extra day in February that comes around every four years, isn't it? And if it isn't, well, it should be.

I personally think the day should be a holiday. After all, it only comes every four years. It's only there to make the counting right (after all, we've already done the time the day represents), so it only seems fair that we shouldn't have to work because we've already done everything we needed to do up till now.

Once again, it's the little people who are getting screwed. Oh, it's not that the big folks, the rich and famous, have the day off and we don't. No, that's not it at all. Truth be told, though, all of those folks don't have to work anymore, so if they do, it's for the pure fun of it, so every day is, in a sense, a holiday for them.

The rest of us, though? Well, I don't know about you, but as for me, this working thing gets me down sometimes. Same old grind, same old same-old. Considering what comes out of it all in the end, I also think that most of us work way too much as it is. I read recently that if we had plowed our productivity gains over the past 50 years into working time instead of into profit (which only a few have benefitted from, I might add), we'd only have to be working about one day a week. OK, in that case, we wouldn't have a debate about February 29 at all. As it is, though, I think it should be a holiday. After all, we've already got a name for it.

Outta

This last trip "home" was very short: a mere sixteen days, but time enough for at least one impression every 24 hours:

Out of sight, out of mind.
Out of place, out of time.
Out of rhythm, out of tune.
Out of bounds and not too soon.
Out of power, out of gas.
Out of hope that couldn't last.
Out of money, out of funds.
Out of luck that never comes.
Out of give, out of take.
Out of sleep but not awake.
Out of up, out of down.
Out of square, out of round.
Out of happy, out of sad.
Out of angry, not out of mad.
Out of thinking, out of thoughts.
But with ideals that can't be bought.

OK, it's not a travelogue, but it's not supposed to be.

Legacy of the Enlightenment

For most of my adult life, I firmly believed that reason would prevail. Now, I'm not so sure. Oh, I wouldn't mind being wrong, but doubts are starting to rise. Why? Well, just chalk it up to experience.

My recent trip abroad did little to resolve those doubts. How can reason even stand a chance if there's no dialog? I'm not talking about the friendly, idle chit-chat and small talk that occurs at the cash register in the store. I'm not talking about the let's-get-caught-up-on-the-time-apart of family get-togethers. And, I'm not talking about what passes for discussion when it broadcast after or around the news. No, I'm talking about real people discussing real issues with each other in real time.

Maybe I just missed it, but politeness and political correctness seem to have moved so far into the foreground that honest expression of a position on an issue makes too many people feel uncomfortable. When the semblance of a dialogue takes place, it is more like a statement and re-statement of positions, not a back-and-forth of ideas and facts supporting contentions and arguments. Whatever you do, don't confuse the issue with facts.

It's too bad, really. Though the US seems to be stuck in the times of its founding, it has lost much of that Spirit of the Enlightenment which drove much of the discussion of the time: in the Enlightenment, the unstated ideal was that the best argument would prevail. What I'm seeing though is the position that carries the day is the one whose proponents simply persevere in presenting.

Home again

After two weeks around where I was born, I know just how right Mr. Wolfe was ... or is. He might have said it a while ago, but it's as valid a statement as ever. Truths, should there be such a thing, are eternal, or so I'm told.

It makes you wonder about concepts like "home". What is that, anyway? Home is where you hang your hat, say some. Home is where the heart is, maintain others. I did notice in my conversations with the family that no one buys a house anymore. They only buy homes. But didn't someone else live there before? It makes me wonder: is "home" a place or a feeling?

I think I'm going to go with the latter. Home is, to my mind, simply where you feel "at home". That sounds more like a tautology than a truth, but how else could it be, really? My kids, for example, were born one place, grew up in another, and are living entirely somewhere else. If you ask them where "home" is, what are they going to say? My guess is that home to them is where they feel most at home. In today's overly mobile society, they are more the norm than those who, like my father, are born and grow up somewhere (that is, within a limited radius of miles) and who will die there as well.

It may seem trivial, but if you go back to where you were born and visit family and old friends, the question comes up more than once; namely, "How does it feel to be home again?" But am I? Am I home or am I simply there where I was born? I can't answer for anyone else, but for me, the answer is home is where I'll be when the vacation is over.

Going home

Thomas Wolfe once wrote that you can't go home anymore. I have long thought that thought has carried more than a grain of truth. But, what if you still wanted to? Or, what if you didn't want to, but ended up there anyway?

Did you ever feel that you were simply "beside yourself"? Oh, I know that phrase generally means that we're upset to no end, but I mean literally, beside yourself ... like there was another you, a shadow you, standing next to you and looking over your shoulder? Years ago there was a dishwashing-detergent commercial that used that image to get the almost-perfect housewife to switch dishwashing liquids (thereby achieving perfection ... well, at least until the laundry-detergent commercial came on). The "real" person saw the state of her dishes; the "other" person ... well, what about that person?

I think about that other person from time to time, and lately I've been thinking about him a lot. Traveling back to where you grew up can really kick that thinking into high gear. It occurred to me that I've been away from here longer than I lived here. There's no reason to be as attached as I once was. In fact, I don't think it is possible to be that attached. Thoreau maintained that things don't change, we change; but some things change as well. Oh, it's not that they get more modern or technologically advanced, rather, like fruit they ripen, and at some point that fruit may no longer be suited for personal consumption.

No, no, the fruit's not rotten, it's not just to my taste. How much it ever was is another issue, to be sure; but as far as Mr. Thoreau is concerned, yes, my own tastes have changed.

President's Day

This weekend is a holiday weekend in the States, and if you ever thought you'd forget that fact, you're terribly mistaken. Even if you only watch a little TV, you won't escape the commercials, and you won't escape the sales going on for every consumer item, large or small, just to celebrate this day. After all, what could be more fitting than taking a holiday weekend, one of those long weekends American loves so well, to pay homage to ... presidents?

Yep, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln were both Aquarians. In the search for a way of avoiding offering more vacation time, those two birthdays were put together to be celebrated on the third Monday in February, and to be henceforth known as President's Day.

Two of the greatest icons of American history: the Father of the Country (Washington, first president, perpetuated on the ubiquitous one-dollar bill) and the Signer of the Emancipation Proclamation (Lincoln, 16th president, during the Civil War and perpetuated on the five-dollar bill) get to share a holiday all their own. Of course, the prominence in American society ... or should I say the American economy (I'm not sure there's much of the former anymore, but I'm convinced there's a lot of the latter) ... of these two gentlemen on the country's currency is really the tip-off to the holiday just ahead: buy, buy, buy, buy, buy.

I don't doubt for a minute that this is exactly what all good Americans will do this holiday weekend. We may like history, but we love today. And the more we spend today, the brighter the future ... or so the mantra goes. I still think, though, that a little more emphasis on history, particularly recent history, could also be in order. After all, most of the folks I've been talking to lately don't seem to be quite as optimistic as they used to be.

Reality: what a concept

Did you ever wonder what is real? I don't mean just reacting to a stupid statement or being involved in some terribly inexplicable situation. No, I mean "real" in the real sense of the word.

Did you ever ask yourself if you weren't perhaps in some alternate reality in which the laws of physics and behavior that you thought you understood just didn't apply? I don't mean that jaw-dropping reaction to something someone says or does. No, I mean "reality" in the real sense of the word.

OK, maybe there's been a science-fiction story or two too many recently. Maybe it was that last old episode of Twilight Zone I found online. Or maybe, just maybe, it's being somewhere you thought you were familiar with only to realize that even though you spent a good portion of your life there, you might as well be visiting a foreign country. Who knows?

I actually think I'm starting to get where writers get their material. Every good comedian I've ever known insists they don't make up their material, they just take it from everyday life. What's good enough for comedians, must be good enough for the rest of those who write. You don't have to make it up at all. You just have to look around you.

Could it be that the best fiction going is reality?

Toy boxes

One of the few pleasures of living away from home is the times I return to see how things are getting along without me. Last week I decided it was time to make the pilgrimage again. After being there just a short while, I realized that everything was in good hands, and, as usual, my five year-old brother dominated the scene.

Five-year olds have such an unconscious insight into adults and how they live. Sometimes it is frightening, to say the least. But, dodging the paranoia, I thought it would do me some good to talk to the boy to see how things had been while I was away.

He was not in sight when I got home, but deducing that he would more likely be in the playroom than the library, I went in there to find him. I came very close to breaking my neck as I stumbled over the toys which were strewn about the room. At first, I thought the room had been ransacked, but then I spied my brother in one corner frantically going through his toy box. "Hey," I called, "you're gonna kill someone if you don't quit throwing your toys around here!" He just looked at me as if I had committed an unforgivable sin, but being ignorant of the ways of a five-year old, and determined, with all my adult naiveté, to find out what was going on, I persisted.

"Whatcha looking for, sport?"

"My fire truck."

"Any particular reason?"

"No, I know it's in here though, so I wanna find it."

"You sure you didn't leave it somewhere? Outside maybe? Or up in your room?"

"Nah, all my toys are in here."

"It must make things pretty rough to get at – all those toys in one box and all. No wonder you can't find anything. Everything is just piled in here on top of each other. You're gonna break them all, if you keep this up."

"Well, Mommy says I gotta keep them all here. She says if I don't I'll lose them. But I still can't find my fire truck."

"Want some help?"

"No. Oh! I found it! I found it!"

Sure enough, out from beneath the ton of debris in the box, he pulled his fire truck. It seemed rather small and not worth the search, but I guess to him it was, and off he ran, leaving me sitting there amidst his mess. Many people think that young children can teach adults a great deal, and my experience with my brother bears this out. It was a lesson well worth learning. But I'm going to have to sit and rummage through my mind though and find out exactly what it is.

Simplicity

Max sat hunched over his paper. "Gawd, it's hard to put anything down anymore."

He sat for while looking out his window, but it quickly degenerated into an empty gaze. There was never anything to put down on paper. All that is never was, and all that was not ever wasn't either. It all seemed so simple.

The trees were swaying ever so slightly, being restrained, however, by the fact they were leafless. The lack of leaves made them unable to whisper those same truths Max had been so desperately trying to translate into words that everyone could understand. It was so simple in theory, but it was obvious that too many people were afraid of what the trees might say. It's not an uncommon problem, but a chronic one.

Max got up and went to the window so he could get a better view of those same things he had been looking at for so long now. They never changed, or so it seemed. He couldn't imagine why no one ever saw that. It seemed so obvious, yet here he was trying to get it across to those vast, unseen, faceless masses who really couldn't care less if they knew about it or not. Stagnation oozed through the window.

Everything he saw was saying the same thing at the same time and all those voices quieted themselves into a hushed chorus of unimaginable harmony.

"It is all too simple," he thought, "when taken as a whole, it is beyond expression, and when taken one thing at a time, it becomes garbled. No wonder so many artists decide to shoot themselves."

Max never entertained suicidal thoughts himself. There didn't seem to be much point in it. Disillusioned drunks were a dime a dozen. Lonely people went for half the price. Max knew which category he fit into.

"It's not so bad being lonely," he figured. "Hell, there must be millions of us out there – somewhere."

Contentment from fear

The first time that I can recall visiting my grandmother was when I was about five years old. The only thing I remember about the visit was her half-smiling and asking me if I had gone to Sunday school that morning. Being so young, it was difficult to describe what I felt, but I remember I was very uneasy. Now, I know I was frightened.

The house looks the same now as it did the first time I remember it. It is an old frame house covered with gray, imitation brick. The porch was painted a darker gray, and on it was gray swing which never failed to squeak when it moved. To the left of the house were two old pine trees, with branches so thick they kept the sun from shining through. The grass over their roots was always dry and dead and covered with brown needles that had fallen from the lower branches. The grass in the small backyard was always untidy. Every time I saw that house I felt a twinge of fear. It seemed very old, very desolate and it never changed. It reminded me very much of my grandmother.

I recall how reluctantly I walked up the steps to the front door. I knew exactly what I would see and hear each time I walked into that dimly lit, drab living room: my grandmother sitting on the gray couch just to the right of the door, my grandfather in the recliner to the left of the door, but he never frightened me. He moved about and talked, but my grandmother didn't. She just sat there on the couch in the same gray print dress, staring blankly out the front window, as if waiting for someone to come. This was odd, I thought. She was healthy enough so why just sit and look out a window? Even though she was old, I thought she could find something better to do. Maybe I was just afraid of my grandmother.

I always asked my mother if I could go out an play. I had to get out. Outside, I'd head straight for the car and jump in. I'd to sit behind the wheel and play bus driver. I wanted to drive away as fast as I could. Each time I had to stop for a traffic light, though, I would think about my grandmother. I wondered why I wanted to get away from her. After all, she had never been mean to me, but I just couldn't bear to watch her look out that window. I wondered what she was looking for. When I got out on the front porch, I would look far down the street, but I never saw anything. Everything always looked so normal to me.

I think I played bus driver every Sunday afternoon for the next seven years. Every time I went to see her she sat in the same place, looked the same way, and caused me to feel the same way too. But one Sunday, we left to see her, but we did not go to her house. This Sunday I did not feel so uneasy and I had no desire to flee. This Sunday we went to her funeral.

As I stood there and looked at her, I was finally not afraid. She lay there peacefully in a pretty pink dress and seemed more content than I could ever remember. When we went to her house after the funeral, I stopped before going in. I paused and looked once more down the street where I had seen her stare so often. I still saw nothing strange, but I felt content. I was not happy that she had died. In fact, I now missed her a little. Yet, I could not help but feel she had finally seen what she had been looking for, for so long.

A confused calm

Twelve of us huddled around the small, black table in the center of the room upon which were a Bible and one unlit, white candle. A single incandescent bulb glowed while we sat silently listening to the instructions for the séance. Crippled shadows danced on the dirty, replastered walls. An uneasiness filled the air and the faces around the circle. The laughing, disrespectful faces I once knew were now mere morbid, morose masks.

The window behind me rumbled and the circle jerked in closer. It was only the wind. It had been windy since the day we decided to have the séance, and that night wanted to be the highpoint of that dismal weather. The day had been gray and overcast, and the cold rain that had started in the late afternoon hadn't abated. The bare trees snapped wildly in front of the street lights whipped our own crippled shadows into deeper submission. The bulb extinguished, the candle was lit. We were ready to begin. We closed our eyes, bowed our heads and mumbled the Lord's Prayer, then silent concentration in an attempt to make contact ...

The room was exceedingly dark. The walls receded into the darkness. The faces of our little group turned into photo negatives those sitting to my right and left began clutching my hands ever tighter. My heart raced, adrenaline pumped, bright flashes shot through my head, my ears started ringing, throbbing as the blood rushed through them. I was flailing, falling through a void, the air stale, musty, used ... the silence was broken:

"I doubt if we'll make any contact tonight."

A barely audible sigh seeped from the circle. We bowed our heads and again repeated the Lord's Prayer. Someone reached over, fumbled with the switch, bringing the bulb back to life. An uneasy gaiety returned. No one looked at me strangely for I had not budged since started. We got up and walked quietly from the room. Downstairs it was business as usual.

The weather

No letters. No calls. Only silence. Even the outside commotion seemed muffled, muted.

The sky was gray, faceless. Woody sat, on just such a day, staring intently out the window. There wasn't much of a view: only the buildings across the small span of unkempt grass and hedges.

"Wha'! The phone's ringing," Woody thought. "Nah, it never rings."

It rang. Woody turned and stared at the phone, sitting on the nightstand across the room. It rang again. Again.

"Who the hell could that be? Nobody's called in a long time. Nobody's called."

Again.

He looked at his hand on the arm of the chair and by sheer force of will lifted it, then the other, and finally driving his whole body out of the chair, he found himself lumbering toward the phone.

Again, it rang.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming … man, the phone …."

He lifted the receiver and put it gingerly to his ear.

"The time is 11:20. The weather: cloudy and cool, " a mechanical voice spoke.

Woody smiled and hung up. He turned and walked almost lightly to his chair, sat down and gazed out the window again. A renewed sense of worth flooded his entire being.

A touch of sadness

I used to have a clip from a German educational newsletter hanging on my fridge. Translated it went something like, "Our youth is rotten, lazy and godless, they will never be capable of sustaining our culture." It was from a Babylonian clay tablet from 3,000 BCE. It would seem that some things never change.

OK, the Babylonians aren't around anymore, so I suppose there was at least a grain of truth in what they were thinking. On the other hand, the question I really liked asking myself was who let the children get that way in the first place? Yes, it was the parents, the older generation, the ones who should have known better.

It's easy to say the kids are the problem. Yes, we have youth problems. We had them in the 20s, the 60s, the 80s, the 90s, the 00s ... we've got them today. But is it really all that surprising? Aside from the sickly sweetness of the statement that it takes a whole village to raise a child, there is something in that statement as well. Our kids see everything we do these days. And what it is that they get to see?

Violence as the alleged solution to problems (e.g. Iran, OWS protests). Injustice directed at certain segments of the population (e.g. "illegal immigrants"). Grown people whining about not getting what they want (e.g. deregulation advocates). Demagoguery, like spoiled rich people demonizing everyone else, even those who are trying (how weird is it that rich folks quote Marx to make their case?). Cowering (anyone see John King's handling of a non-answer to a valid question?).

There was a time when great writers (Jefferson, Voltaire ...) were held in high-esteem, not quote-opted to justify the opposite of what the context of their writing portrayed. There was a time when reason trumped loudness. There was a time when common sense was relatively common. There was a time when it mattered what our children thought of us.

I don't have the clip on my fridge anymore. UV got to it, but it doesn't really matter. All I have to do is turn on the tube to remind myself that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

The other

A short while ago I had the great privilege of participating in a fascinating online discussion ... one of those kind of discussions that's best had with a case of beer in the dorm. Since we were all sober, of course, we didn't solve all the problems of the world, but I think talks like that one are also a step in the right direction.

We didn't agree on anything, and no sooner did any two participants come to an understanding, someone jumped in with the disrupting argument, and off we went again. In the end, we didn't even agree to disagree, but rather most exhausted from all the effort, it ended as it quietly as it had started, but a lot was achieved ... at least as far as I'm concerned.

We talked. We didn't talk at each other. We didn't talk down to each other. We didn't about each other. No, we talked to each other. We talked with each other. We talked. We challenged each other. We argued, too. But, we talked. We shared, we gave and took. We cajoled, disputed, took issue, insisted, repeated, emphasized ... and listened. Yes, listening (that is, letting words in) is every bit as important as talking (letting words out). And that is what made it so worthwhile.

Opportunities like that one don't come along very often, and they are almost impossible to plan. They spontaneously combust, but too often flare out as quickly as they flare up. At times, though, when the circumstances are right, they just happen, and I can only encourage you to keep your senses alert for any one that might come along. Sometimes just letting it happen is better than trying to make it happen.

It can only happen, of course, if you are open to the other, if you take him or her seriously, if you are willing to listen. I was getting a bit concerned that nobody really knew how to listen anymore, but that little online discussion renewed my hope. We just didn't talk, we listened. OK, it was a bit rusty in places, that is true, but it wasn't broken. A little oil, work it a little, and that listening skill will be as good as new.

Fear of stress?

How do you get from freedom to stress? It's rather easy actually. Stress is caused primarily by uncertainty and I would maintain that we live in one of the most uncertain times in human history. We've been at it for as long as I've been around, and a quick glance at literature will convince you it goes back much further than just me.

In the Middle Ages, things were anything but in order: wars, famine, peasantry, serfdom. But, everybody knew where they fit in. They didn't have to sell their talents on the open job market, they didn't have to worry about their housing being taken away from them because they couldn't pay their loans, they might have wondered where their next meal was coming from (though almost half of the people receiving food stamps in America are working, but not earning enough to feed themselves, but at least they can get some kind of help). God was in heaven, the king was on the throne, the aristocracy and clergy had the upper hand and the rest of us simply knew our place. With the Renaissance and Reformation, that all changed. Suddenly, we were on our own. We didn't like it then, we have had a lot of trouble coming to terms with it since, and we don't handle it very well now. Why is that?

I don't think there's a simple answer, but I think I know in which direction to look for one. Being taken out of the group and placed on one's own is not something that we're used to as human beings. The next thing you know capitalism was on the rise, and it's been rolling like a juggernaut ever since. Every person for himself! Take what you can while you can get it! God's dead (according to Prof. Nietzsche) so there's nothing to hold you back ethically any longer! It's the survival of the fittest, says Mr. Spencer (not Darwin ... he never said such a thing)! And the dog-eat-dog, brutish life we imagine our forebears endured has been thrust upon ourselves. By ourselves.

Was this such a good move? I don't think so. I've been doubting it for quite a while. When we are left on our own, all we have are ourselves, and that is simply not enough. Regardless of the ideology that's driving it, no one ever does, nor has ever done, it all on his or her own. Truth be told, without one another, we're just not much of anything at all. At the end of the day, we're all in this together, so it would really be in our own best interest to take advantage of it. Even though others can often be a real source of stress, when approached more openly, I think you'll find they might be the best antidote, too.