Second Chance

Category: journal

imported from journal

  • Aleksandra, Marty and I

    Aleksandra, Marty and I had lunch yesterday. I like them both. It’s pleasant to work with people you respect and who enjoy one another’s company.
    I’ve been doing a lot of stewing about work, career and stuff, and it was interesting to learn that they have both had similar thoughts. Marty is married and his wife is going to graduate school for social work. Aleksandra’s husband is in the post-doctoral program in physics at UT. So it turns out the three of us are essentially the breadwinners for our respective families.
    The economy has been recovering from what seems like a hangover more than anything else, after the party of the last decade or so. The net effect on us is that we no longer enjoy the luxury of changing jobs at will, or at least it seems like there are fewer good options. That affects the psychology of the worker as well as the corporation — in a market with wider choices, a worker who’s unhappy is more likely to just leave, so you don’t have people hanging around who don’t want to be there. Similarly, the company knows that they don’t need to work as hard to keep employees happy when they are tempted to rely on the market pressures to keep workers in place.
    This induces a kind of feedback situation in which everyone gets more and more miserable.
    Aleks asked the question, “where are we going to be in 20 years? there don’t seem to be too many 55 year old programmers running around Broadjump. they wouldn’t hire us. not everyone can be in management or on the board of directors. so where will we be?”
    It’s a question I have been asking myself for 15 years now. I once thought a management track would be one solution, but for some reason, I don’t seem to fit the profile. I’m not even sure why, exactly, but now I may be rationalizing when I realize I despise low level managers. Their authority orientation makes them seem like dogs, serving their masters, and the middle managers serve their own masters in turn, each claiming the work of his subordinates as if it were his own. The chain continues in some cases to absurd lengths until you reach the executives, founders or owners.
    These, it sometimes seems, have more in common with the best and brightest of workers — a disdain for the chain of ass-kissing middle managers — a regard for them as overhead, a necessary evil.
    In a technological world that changes so rapidly and thoroughly, experience isn’t worth much, where a young person willing to work harder for less can be as or more productive than an experienced one, why bother with us?
    It’s a reasonable business decision on the one hand, but a disturbing realization to anyone on the receiving end.
    This line of thinking has led me to the conclusion that its only a matter of time before something bad happens. So the prudent thing to do is to plan to go into business for myself.
    I’ve been an author and consultant. I liked it a lot better than what I’m doing now. So maybe its time I stopped making compromises and started listening to my heart.

  • Where are you now, children of the sun?

    Where are you now, children of the sun?
    The broken things you left behind,
    yet hold one another up,
    standing hard against the frost.
    Once the sun beamed on our faces,
    and we burst forth, full of life,
    and in that day, we gave you birth
    just to watch you fall, too soon, too soon.
    Sadly resolute, we must live on,
    vines whose fruit has long since fallen,
    what remains for us to do,
    but wait the tiller call us home?

  • "il miglior condimento e l'apetito."

    010930
    Lake Travis, Texas
    Maybe that which we obtain too cheaply, we esteem too lightly. Or rather “il miglior condimento e l’apetito.”
    In any case, yesterday was another one for the books. Our little boat, neglected for so long, came through for us once more.
    Late in the season, when the weather moderates a little, many of the summer boaters are already putting their rigs up for the winter, but for us, that body of water held up from flooding the towns and farms downstream on the “little Colorado” river, by dams built in the late forties and early fifties of the last century, named for a hero of the Texas war for independence, and commander of the doomed garrison of the Alamo, Col. William B. Travis, our refuge and oasis, Lake Travis welcomed us once again, as it has so many times before.
    It is one of those ironies of life that if it were not for a serious misfortune, we would never have been able to afford her.
    Back in 1984, we had just moved down from Dallas where Anita and I had met. The long paths that led us there must remain the subject of future excursions into our peculiar histories.
    But for me, it was a “coming back” to Austin. Compared to Dallas, Austin seemed so much more accomodating — looking back who knows what other paths might have uncovered — but days like yesterday, on the one hand glorious, perfect in so many ways, on the other hand only emphasize the brevity of life. To think of all the other possibilities, the other paths not taken, is to miss the point.
    Julian of Norwich said, “history is nothing more than a pattern of individual moments, each perfect and infinite in itself.”
    It is in the pondering of such moments that all insight comes. I stood in one — knee deep in flood waters, the rain falling on my head — and in another I first launched this little rig into the waters of the Colorado — and many years have passed between those moments until now — but the distance is meaningless — no, less than meaningless — it doesn’t even exist, except perhaps in our own minds.
    The physicists have an explanation for it, the mathematicians formulae and theorems. The theologians have riddles, but lovers have the best and truest explanation of all.
    To them I dedicate these pages. One of their number, I know what they know, what Julian knew, what an infant knows in her mother’s gaze — the fools may prattle about us, but we pay them no mind, as the sun sparkles on the water in moire patterns — shifting and hypnotic — the birds cry, the wind blows, and to us — it is all the same.
    Ponder one of these pearls with me, as the pleasant afternoon sun filtered through the canvas shade over a hardwood deck halfway up one of these innumerable limestone cliffs dotted with junipers, live oaks, rocks. The air filled with the hiss of chirping crickets, normally quiet this time of day, but now that it is cooling off, their song has a poignancy — how much time left? how much time left? how much time left?
    But they don’t know that time is an illusion — they don’t know what I know, as my sandals slap on the deck and I approach my wife from behind — she doesn’t hear me yet, approaching her — this neck I know so well, this hair, this contented smile, obscured behind her sunglasses, looking out on the water, positively high, but not the wine — well, maybe a little, but the wine, as they say, is no more “il condimento” than “l’apetito” — the heart longs for this moment like salt for water, like gravity, understood without comprehension — and the boats play down below — so commonplace, but made otherworldly in this moment because they don’t know that they’re merely pieces of glass, turned in a child’s kaleidoscope, no more than candy for our eyes, and in this moment I can forget that the truth hurts, like anticoagulant on the needle in our veins, the needle that brings life to others, or blessed relief.
    In this moment I can forget that life is God’s challenge to us: “And what are you made of?” He seems to ask with every test, with every temptation, with every blessing.
    How is it we come to be here, somewhere up this lazy river, on the Sandy Creek arm, not a quarter mile from where we once camped in a breathless tent on a steamy July Fourth in 1983, I guess. Who knows? Who cares?
    And above us the sky is cloudless, but for a few wisps, down below is our little honeymoon boat, nameless, trusty, quaint, humble, adequate — and she doesn’t look the part of Gateway to Paradise, but looks can be deceiving.
    There was a groove in my step and you know my life had a soundtrack as my sandals slapped that deck and everything was perfect in that moment as I approached my wife from behind, and that was a groove as she turned to see me and she smiled and the blue water sparkled behind her and the green hills caressed the pale sky but I didn’t see them, because all I could see was the love in my baby’s eye and we kissed.
    And later we cruised out into the main body of the “lake” — just a wide river — but so much more to us — and our lives are like that river — so much water has passed under that bridge since we first floated out on an inflatable raft — the first S.S. Lowe, I dare say, so many memories, always mixed, always tinged, alloyed with the spirits of those no longer with us, and we ourselves are no longer the people we were in those moments — and the river is no longer the same river, but here it is and here we are, and the sun is going down now, fiery orange hiding behind a few wispy white clouds, and I’m getting bold enough to cut the engine out here as we have done so many times before, and the sailboats glide by us, each silently telling its own tale about lovers and families and lonely sailors, who all share this need to come back to the well, where we find renewal, better than any church, because, believe it my friend, God is here, and here He smiles on all lovers of the water, and as the faithful, ancient sun descends, the shadows lengthen on the fingers of the hills, and the big birds tickle the drafts that hold them up with their finger-like feathers, otherwise motionless, timeless, and this little boat carves out a space of air just for us two, as our thoughts fly back, ten, fifteen years when we were both younger and sitting together, right here, looking at the shadows stretch across these same hills, warming to this same now yellow, now orange, now red ball of a sun, farewell, old friend, see you tomorrow, God willing, but meanwhile, we have each other as companion. And once we floated out here when Anita was expecting, and now that person is a teenager, and once we did so again, and now that person is ten, and once we did so with my brothers, and we swam in the black water in the dark and watched the meteors shower, the sailboats grazed by us unlit, like ghosts in the night, and still we return, and still this faithful old girl conveys us and keeps us dry and carries us once more to port.
    And like old hands, we tie up to the familiar moorings, making her fast, and we’re exhausted from joy and pleasure and love, and God bless us, we’re lucky to be alive, and thank Him for another day on this earth, another pearl on this thread, and for each other.
    Drink deep sweetheart, this is what life is all about.

    “Chain Lightning” by Steely Dan

  • c'mon, let's go for a drive

    c’mon, let’s go for a drive.
    it’s still light.
    the air is warm and and the fresh breeze sweet.
    c’mon. can’t you feel it?
    the sky is a warm blue loop.
    it’s a fine evening for a cruise.
    can you smell the sea?
    it’s blue too and tinges the sky with green.
    the world is effervescent like the surf at night.
    and here it comes, the warm, friendly night.
    the lengthening shadows creep up from their slumbers,
    hiding away the day under rocks and bridges
    to come take their turn, cavorting.
    do you see the clouds?
    slate gray against phosphor blue-white, I don’t know what.
    aha! streetlight, headlight — first star I see tonight.
    dive into the heart of it, this is where we were meant to be!

  • there is something unique

    there is something unique about our earliest memories, something visceral.
    I think it has something to do with the nature of our minds at certain stages, phases, whatever.
    each one of us is different, and in trying to explain it to people, I find that its very challenging to capture the quality of these memories, the further back the more inaccessible, and it has to do with the fact that our minds — that is we — are changing, becoming more socialized, amalgamated, “normal” and in effect losing our uniqueness.
    so in challenge to the inexorable march toward oblivion that I sense more and more each day, each year, as I pass through middle age, from youth to old age, the need for me to capture and express these experiences to you, dear reader, grows from a passing notion to a need, to an obsession.
    and I find that even when successful, a moment’s reflection, an instantaneous flash extrapolated in all its savory complexity becomes volumes. thus, per proust.
    and in the end, no one cares about “the madeleine”, so to speak, what hitchcock called “the macguffin” — the bag of jewels that all the characters in a movie are scheming and fighting over — but in which the audience has no vested interest. it is merely a device designed to motivate the actors.
    and so with these germs, these seeds of personality, and to the extent that they posess universal qualities, these essences of humanity.
    for example, no one cares that as I slept, or nearly slept as an infant or still very young child, I heard my father’s voice, raised, but still low, rumbling like thunder, obliquely threatening and to me, frightening. and no one cares that to this day, certain mumbling voices or phrasings that share that characteristic — slurred, perhaps drunken, deep, angry but desperate in its numb pasionlessness — I get a certain feeling that I’m sure is not typical among people on this side of the prison wall.

  • the 'B' side

    I guess I’ve started listening to bj’s and jim’s tapes a lot these past weeks, and if I’m not mistaken I’ve notice a few themes, concious, unconcious, or nonexistent, I don’t know…
    but on bj’s there’s jethro tull’s “living in the past” just after taj mahal’s “there is no percentage in remembering the past” and, well, on reflection, that one’s pretty obvious…
    and on jim’s old tape (jim’s picks 1, I suppose), I found that I hadn’t listened to the ‘B’ side at all… how’s that? well on the plus side, its like a nice fresh discovery…
    but the theme itself eludes me just now…but I remember it also involved loss and a sense of involvement in the past, a kind of nostalgia, but different, a bittersweet, even sentimental recollection.
    I think there’s a possibility here, a select-a-set.com type thing, involving the son-of-napster systems that are cropping up, you post your set, and it boils down to pointers to the songs, which your friends then fetch via their own channels….but people have to have broadband for it to work… maybe its an e.s.d. app?

  • there is no percentage in remembering the past

    there is no percentage in remembering the past… a taj mahal song on the cd bj cut for his brothers, listening to it at work, I find I do remember and ponder the past, or isolated segements of it, the inside of the house, that peculiar shade of blue paint on the walls and the prints of paintings, the bannister going halfway up the stairs before the solid wall, and at the top the hope chest, smelling of cedar and antiquity. I liked better before mom painted it, but still … I wonder what became of it.
    and so like the rest of our heritage, such as it is, we depart for lands unknown with successive generations, at first because there was no patrimony, presumably, there was nothing at all. of course, who knows? our ancestry is opaque.
    could they write? did they want to forget? did they, like the rest of us, find themselves taken before they realized what had become of them, and alienated from their children, lacked a ready ear for their tale before they died. and they died young, from heart disease, and god knows what else, but the oft-used direct channel grandparents have with their grandchildren, skipping all that parent-child crap, was unavailable to us, because by the time we were ready, they were gone.
    and so it goes, but did they leave nothing behind? nothing at all? no writings, no journals, no photos, no scribbles on scraps of paper that should have been discarded generations ago, but held onto because it was all that remained of a person, a human being, my grandparents, or their brothers and sisters, or their parents… what the hell became of them?

  • goodnight mom, goodnight dad

    goodnight mom, goodnight dad, goodnight monica, good night casper in heaven, good night remi in heaven good night sara in heaven, good night everyone I love and like including stuffed animals, animals, friends, angels and good people in heaven. good night everyone.

  • strange, how you remember

    strange, how you remember things, … I just remembered that peculiar mix of salt, sand, mustard and indigestion of eating a hot dog at field nine concession, where the cold wet concrete rubbed against the grit of sand under your feet, you stood staring vacantly, chewing, a towel over your shoulder. The cries of gulls and children in the roaring waves filled our ears, but we weren’t paying attention. The hot parking lot had burned our bare feet as we vainly attempted to walk on the faded white paint of the parking spaces between the cars glinting in the sun, and a recent storm had shortened the beach dramatically, but it still stood, scattered with towels and chairs, sandcastles and umbrellas between the red and green flags where the heart of the summer was wrapped up snug like a baby in her crib, sleeping peacefully in the shade under an umbrella, dreaming a dream of herself.

  • Red Rock State Park, Gallup, New Mexico

    I woke early, and in a way, feel like I’m stealing some private time as I quietly slip out trying not to wake anyone.
    I have this journal in my hand, my blue jeans on because its a little chilly as the sun comes up behind the massive red rock, known as Church Rock.
    We drove in late last night, later than we should have – we were punchy and tired, and we pushed a little farther than we should have, but more to the point, we could barely make out the sites.
    The office here had long been closed and the restrooms were locked and I was out of beer, and nothing was right. So we had a bite to eat – no cooking tonight, just salad or cereal according to your preference, and then to bed, a little reading and lights out after a long, long day.
    But this morning, it is a different world.
    At 7 am I wandered over to the office and signed us in & picked up the keys to the showers and restroom, which were fine, although the ladies would have no use for them until nearly 10:00.
    Meanwhile, I take my free coffee (free coffee! and its good!) – sit down at a picnic table and contemplate my surroundings.
    Behind me stand a number of massive humps of red sandstone from the Mesozoic era. They look it too. For all the world, I could be in Bedrock and the Flintstones could be living among the trees that dot the top we had only seen by the rise of the yellow moon last night in a notch between two of these sleeping giants who surely witnessed dinosaurs trod this very ground even as we drive vehicles powered by petroleum oils derived from the remains of that same era. The moon last night cast a spooky light on Church Rock in the notch between these two massive tongues of sandstone embracing this campground.
    But as I sit here and sip my coffee in the pleasant quiet of the ancient early morning – and as the shadows slide down the rock faces and across the grass toward me, retreating before the oncoming sun, I try to recall the events of the past few days as thousands upon thousands of Monarch butterflies dance before and around me.
    Their peculiar fluttering, resting, darting and dancing has a hypnotic and restful rhythm – clearing my mind, but also my heart and my soul as I ponder the eternity of this resting place along their phenomenal migration from the jungles of Mexico to the northern forests (or at least what remains of them)..
    How do these tiny fellows accomplish their feat?
    Does it have something to do with the unseen quality of this place, something still magical to us, something for which we yet lack the tools to measure or perceive directly, except intuitively, as if out of the corner of the eye? Or is it that for them, like me, this place just “feels” right? This is where I’m supposed to be, this is what I’m supposed to be doing, dashing around the southwest in the heat, from rock to canyon, from pictograph to petroglyph, from ruin to ruin, contemplating the passage of time, and considering that the old ones – the Anasazi – were here only a thousand years before us, and nothing at all remains of them except a few scratches in the rock and a few stones stuck together with mud in the notch of a sheer cliff face.
    And before them came the “Basketweavers”, who left us even less – just a few pictographs in isolated places, miraculously preserved in the arid desert shadows among the rocks and crags – telling us tantalizingly little about them except that they farmed and wove and traded with fisher people as well as other hunters of the plains and mountains as long ago as 2500 B.C.
    And so four and a half millennia are to these butterflies nothing – they have been making these seasonal migrations for millions of years – who knows how long? Tens of millions, hundreds of millions? Admirably resilient for all their apparent fragility.
    And what shaman or hunter sat in this very spot three thousand years ago, among the crags of these red rocks, watching the sun rise, pondering similar thoughts amid clouds of Monarchs fluttering through eternity?