Today, at the ripe age of 46 and a month and a half, my youngest child graduated from high school. Alas. I feel too young to be this old.
Today, at the tender age of 46, my step-mother, nearly twice my age, seems again to be on the verge of a final exit. Alas. I feel too busy to care.
Today, at my age, I look forward to time off, my love and I working on the house and yard and finding ourselves together again without immediate the necessaries of children (not that we still won't have those pleasures (I mean it!)) driving us in to lean on one another - now we'll re-invent what we found first in each other more than 20 years ago. We'll find it or lose it. I won't sugar over the risk. But I believe that what we found in the first place, in the fall of 1986, we still have. We may have to shine it up now and again - rub the sleep from our eyes as we've been lulled by relentlessness of living - and thus realize, rediscover, what is more powerful than infatuation: attachment.
Ride report
in: 14'C wind 25 ks SSE
out: 28'C wind 35 ks SE
30 June 2011
28 June 2011
An ABE and his bike
So here's the evidence ...
... in case you doubted it.
Ride report
in: 10'C wind calm
out: 23'C wind 25 S
27 June 2011
Fixing bikes
I just performed a minor repairs (tightened the bearings on the back axle) on this Deelite,
the first bike that each of our kids rode, which we bought at the Regent Ave Value Village in the early 1990s. I'm going to ride it in the grad parade tomorrow for the last time, as B is graduating, and she's the last of our three. It's going to be a moment.
And it's a pretty sweet bike.
It was originally a metallic green with a banana seat, but G wanted a pink bike, so we painted it pink, and she didn't like the banana seat, so we made it a mini-cruiser. S was just fine with this, but B wanted it to be green, so we painted it back again. The paint-job's not that great, but the bike still works pretty well.
Today I noticed though that the back axle had a lot of play, so I thought I'd give it a bit of lovin' and tighten it up. The a little more involved than I had remembered, to remove the back wheel of a coaster bike.
After you loosen the axle nuts you realize that you have to take them right off in order to remove the fender stays, and then you have to remove the clamp that hold the coaster brake lever in place. Very intense. Anyway, I succeeded in removing the wheel and tightening the bearing on the axle, so she's tight and turning smooth. Let the knees around my ears riding begin.
Working on a bike this small with a 9/16 wrench, then an 11/16 and a crescent, brought back all sorts of good feelings about messing with bikes - changing them from banana-seaters with ape-hangers, to proto-BMX jobs with rims and pedals that simply could not stand the pounding of landings off of home-made ramps. Every time something busted I don't recall frustration so much as a sense of opportunity. Fixing and modifying was (and is) as much fun as riding.
That's probably some sort of metaphor for life - mine at least. I'm always tinkering. Always thinking there's something better. Sometimes this is just plain counter-productive - if you're worried about being productive - but I'll tell you, that doesn't stop me from wanting to take it apart to try to make it better.
Ride report
in: 13'C wind 20 ks NE
out: 18'C wind 25 ks NW
the first bike that each of our kids rode, which we bought at the Regent Ave Value Village in the early 1990s. I'm going to ride it in the grad parade tomorrow for the last time, as B is graduating, and she's the last of our three. It's going to be a moment.
And it's a pretty sweet bike.
It was originally a metallic green with a banana seat, but G wanted a pink bike, so we painted it pink, and she didn't like the banana seat, so we made it a mini-cruiser. S was just fine with this, but B wanted it to be green, so we painted it back again. The paint-job's not that great, but the bike still works pretty well.
Today I noticed though that the back axle had a lot of play, so I thought I'd give it a bit of lovin' and tighten it up. The a little more involved than I had remembered, to remove the back wheel of a coaster bike.
After you loosen the axle nuts you realize that you have to take them right off in order to remove the fender stays, and then you have to remove the clamp that hold the coaster brake lever in place. Very intense. Anyway, I succeeded in removing the wheel and tightening the bearing on the axle, so she's tight and turning smooth. Let the knees around my ears riding begin.
Working on a bike this small with a 9/16 wrench, then an 11/16 and a crescent, brought back all sorts of good feelings about messing with bikes - changing them from banana-seaters with ape-hangers, to proto-BMX jobs with rims and pedals that simply could not stand the pounding of landings off of home-made ramps. Every time something busted I don't recall frustration so much as a sense of opportunity. Fixing and modifying was (and is) as much fun as riding.
That's probably some sort of metaphor for life - mine at least. I'm always tinkering. Always thinking there's something better. Sometimes this is just plain counter-productive - if you're worried about being productive - but I'll tell you, that doesn't stop me from wanting to take it apart to try to make it better.
Ride report
in: 13'C wind 20 ks NE
out: 18'C wind 25 ks NW
22 June 2011
At sundown
Nearly every sundown a certain person, you perhaps, comes running down the hall shouting “Endings endings! It’s almost over!” and I, well, I am left standing stock still hoping it’ll all miss me. But I understand now, as before, that you will not, cannot avoid me. This corridor is too wide, its waxed stone floor too bright. I might as well be incandescent, shining in it – an interrogation room crammed with honesty. So we will sit down at this glinting table, each of us pulling back a matched brushed steel chair waiting for just this moment, and we will do what we have in fact been doing countless hours and days before, recounting moments in memoriam, playing out farewells, our laughter cued to mourning by this inevitable script, its ink indelible. Still, standing here I hold my place, hoping we miss each other this one moment, hoping we disregard this illusory quartzite oscillation. That you and I will meet in silence, smiling believers who pass one another in the faith. Surely we will meet again.
Ride report
in: 14'C wind 20 SE
out: 18'C wind 25 ESE (rain)
20 June 2011
A request
Every once in a while a former student (sometimes they've even become friends) will contact me and ask for a list of books to read, because they've found themselves in a rut, and they're hoping for a push.
Here's a part of a recent request:
"Anyway, I have been less than inspired lately. Well, not just lately, the last few years, I suppose. I could use some inspiration! Do you have any book suggestions for me? Classic literature, poetry, or anything really? Anything to get me thinking."
And here's my response:
All is well, even though all is busy ... blah blah marks and year-end blah. Still, it's good. No guarantees with this list, but these have all been written within the last century. No poetry here, although a few of them are very poetic.
I'm honoured you'd ask!
Here you go:
Holy The Firm - Annie Dillard (nonfiction)
Pilgrim At Tinker Creek - Annie Dillard (nonfiction)
The Elegance of the Hedgehog - Muriel Barbery
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers
The Cement Garden - Ian MacEwan
Atonement - Ian MacEwan
July, July - Tim O'Brien
Small Wonders - Barbara Kingsolver (nonfiction)
The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis - Lydia Davis (great short pieces! - but it's a thick book)
Reading by Lightning - Joan Thomas (she has a new one too)
Hope your leg's all right. I heard from your mom that the fall set you back quite a bit. Really sorry to hear that!
Will you be my Facebook friend too?
For all of the crap that it presents, and for all of my suspicion of it, for this Facebook is worth something.
Ride report
in: 15'C wind 20 ks SE
out: 17'C wind 25 ks ESE
15 June 2011
How could we?
(for fenrixIX)
It’s in the word
he thinks
I know it
mired down there
under the muck
of lines and dots
these punctuations of weight
It’s too much sometimes
the atmosphere and its blue
the earth and its ochre
the red of the sun
its too much to get done
Still, in the murmuring
susurrant
rasping strident
then mute
dumb and stopped
before the monument of memory
we all fall in
the vagaries of testimony
Yet will I witness to it
my people I will preach
prophesy at once and in
all ways that there is no other
way for me but in the word
Where-from spans the bridge
across the chasm?
that will save us? that will
damn us, damn me
yet, from this side will
I holler to you standing
in the wind on that
other cliff teetering above
your heavy stone
You’ll turn to your friend and say
what? what
did he say? yes!
Until I am hoarse
with crying I will say “I thirst”
and still, despite the weight of it
gravity relentless over us
every action equal and opposite
I shall believe that we might
unearth it, together
12 June 2011
click here to update
On Thursday:
Attended opening of "Engaging Connections" exhibition of three artists, one of which is my dear M. A fine time of wine and conversation.
On Friday:
Prepared and hosted the launch of "Ellipsis," the first art and literary magazine (72 pages) published by W.C. Miller Collegiate's ELT30S Journalism class (which I teach). Another fine event of reading and music and cake and conversation. Here's the launch poster, which features the cover of the mag:
Watched The Trotsky ~ meh.
On Saturday:
Work around the house day. Finally filled the solar collecting tubes on the roof, to rejuvenate the ground loop, helped with some landscaping, watched as Cornelio and his Bobcat levelled the drive and spread 12 yards of 3/4 down on it. Went for a 34 k bike ride with G & J.
On Sunday:
Practiced for playing at the Decoration Day service at the Cenotaph. Attended S's baptism service. Was moved, reminded, and proud of her thoughtful decision to take the leap, rather than grope around and gripe. Had lunch with family and friends to celebrate the baptism. Headed off with B to play at the Decoration Day service. Relaxed. Had supper with family. Marked some stuff.
An eventful, but satisfying, few days.
Attended opening of "Engaging Connections" exhibition of three artists, one of which is my dear M. A fine time of wine and conversation.
On Friday:
Prepared and hosted the launch of "Ellipsis," the first art and literary magazine (72 pages) published by W.C. Miller Collegiate's ELT30S Journalism class (which I teach). Another fine event of reading and music and cake and conversation. Here's the launch poster, which features the cover of the mag:
Watched The Trotsky ~ meh.
On Saturday:
Work around the house day. Finally filled the solar collecting tubes on the roof, to rejuvenate the ground loop, helped with some landscaping, watched as Cornelio and his Bobcat levelled the drive and spread 12 yards of 3/4 down on it. Went for a 34 k bike ride with G & J.
On Sunday:
Practiced for playing at the Decoration Day service at the Cenotaph. Attended S's baptism service. Was moved, reminded, and proud of her thoughtful decision to take the leap, rather than grope around and gripe. Had lunch with family and friends to celebrate the baptism. Headed off with B to play at the Decoration Day service. Relaxed. Had supper with family. Marked some stuff.
An eventful, but satisfying, few days.
08 June 2011
Are cycle commuters moral just because?
Some of us think so. Some people who just hear a regular bicycle commuter talk about their experiences, or how they do what they do day in and day out, seem to find it easy to arrive at the conclusion that this cyclist believes he's committing a morally superior act. As if someone who takes the extra time out of his day to ride a few miles to work, and then clean up and change into work clothes is somehow engaging in an act akin to lending the neighbour his truck to help him move, or helping a little old lady across the street.
Tonight, after reading a set of web comments debating the merits and dangers of bike riding to work (mostly in cities), M noted that she could check, for my portion of the long form census that we're filling out (is this now a moral act too, since we don't really have to do it by law), that my mode of transport to and from work is by bicycle. Well not it's official. Finally someone of consequence knows that I ride my bike to work.
Why do people, when they find out that I commute by bike for the five miles too and from work, rain or shine, fall, winter, and spring, often admire me, then congratulate me, then tell me I'm crazy, then ask me why, as if there must be some larger, more "meaningful" reason for it? Am I trying to save the environment? (What? How would one begin to do that?) Do I hate cars? (Only their drivers!) Don't I have a vehicle? (by this they mean one that uses gasoline - I own three by last count) Is someone else using my car?
Each of these questions presumes that riding a bicycle to and from work is somehow on the edge of sanity. It's weird, and why would I want to be weird? It's difficult, and why would I want to do anything difficult? (or Why wouldn't I do the easier thing, since I could?) And so on. With these sorts of questions and concerns, it seems that it doesn't take too long for people to "go" to the moral question.
Moral actions are often marginal acts, things people do that are out of the ordinary, acts that stand out. You will be easily able to tell, from this logic, when someone does something moral. It'll be obvious. This sort of thinking, which seems to abound in an affluent society worried about its right to (and the rightness of) its wealth and comfort, and therefore a bit neurotic about what might be moral, or not, wants to label any marginal, or unorthodox, act as moral, or immoral.
Few people seem content with answers like, because I want to, or because I like it, or because I feel better mentally and physically from it, or because it's my gym. They want something more. Something moral. Something that they can debate. But really, I'm just riding my bike to work. That's my choice. You can make of it what you want.
Ride report
in: 7'C wind 30 ks NNW
out: 15'C wind 25 ks NNW
Tonight, after reading a set of web comments debating the merits and dangers of bike riding to work (mostly in cities), M noted that she could check, for my portion of the long form census that we're filling out (is this now a moral act too, since we don't really have to do it by law), that my mode of transport to and from work is by bicycle. Well not it's official. Finally someone of consequence knows that I ride my bike to work.
Why do people, when they find out that I commute by bike for the five miles too and from work, rain or shine, fall, winter, and spring, often admire me, then congratulate me, then tell me I'm crazy, then ask me why, as if there must be some larger, more "meaningful" reason for it? Am I trying to save the environment? (What? How would one begin to do that?) Do I hate cars? (Only their drivers!) Don't I have a vehicle? (by this they mean one that uses gasoline - I own three by last count) Is someone else using my car?
Each of these questions presumes that riding a bicycle to and from work is somehow on the edge of sanity. It's weird, and why would I want to be weird? It's difficult, and why would I want to do anything difficult? (or Why wouldn't I do the easier thing, since I could?) And so on. With these sorts of questions and concerns, it seems that it doesn't take too long for people to "go" to the moral question.
Moral actions are often marginal acts, things people do that are out of the ordinary, acts that stand out. You will be easily able to tell, from this logic, when someone does something moral. It'll be obvious. This sort of thinking, which seems to abound in an affluent society worried about its right to (and the rightness of) its wealth and comfort, and therefore a bit neurotic about what might be moral, or not, wants to label any marginal, or unorthodox, act as moral, or immoral.
Few people seem content with answers like, because I want to, or because I like it, or because I feel better mentally and physically from it, or because it's my gym. They want something more. Something moral. Something that they can debate. But really, I'm just riding my bike to work. That's my choice. You can make of it what you want.
Ride report
in: 7'C wind 30 ks NNW
out: 15'C wind 25 ks NNW
07 June 2011
He has things to do
He chooses not to do them. Often. It has becoming a thing. A routine. He'll sit down. Draw up a list of the things to be done: on a scrap of paper later to be folded and slipped into a pocket, on a Notebook file to be saved to the desktop and lost among the icons, in a pocket day-timer to be stowed in the pocket of a carrying bag. All these lists, at their creation, bring a great deal of pleasure. He sits back each time and inspects the list. Admires it. Then secrets it away into a place that he knows, that he believes, will make it quite immediately available to remind him of his obligations.
What does he know though? Of his own heart and its wanderings? Does he really have the faith required to do those things he will, in casual and profound conversation, claim as worthy endeavours? Do his intentions stand a chance when confronted with lost time? What trade does faith have with the passage of days? Can belief withstand the onslaught of appetite? The vices? The sweets?
He pushes back the chair from the table. Walks with purpose to the small cabinet in the sitting room. Reaches in it to find glass and bottle. Decants. Replaces. Sniffs. Sips. Smiles. Reaches for a magazine and sits down. Sips again. Opens the magazine from the back and begins to read.
Ride report
in: 9'C wind 25 ks SE
out: 15'C wind 40 ks NE
What does he know though? Of his own heart and its wanderings? Does he really have the faith required to do those things he will, in casual and profound conversation, claim as worthy endeavours? Do his intentions stand a chance when confronted with lost time? What trade does faith have with the passage of days? Can belief withstand the onslaught of appetite? The vices? The sweets?
He pushes back the chair from the table. Walks with purpose to the small cabinet in the sitting room. Reaches in it to find glass and bottle. Decants. Replaces. Sniffs. Sips. Smiles. Reaches for a magazine and sits down. Sips again. Opens the magazine from the back and begins to read.
Ride report
in: 9'C wind 25 ks SE
out: 15'C wind 40 ks NE
06 June 2011
Slo-pitch
Some days that's what you need. A high slow one. A lob that you can stare down and then knall with the biggest bat you've got. It feels pretty good when that works. The rest of the day the pitches are coming in high and hard and then there's a change-up and you swing way too early. You're off balance. On edge. You get a little testy at times.
So think about slo-pitch the next time you're asking someone you work with to pick up something for you, or just move things along a little quicker. Think about how you'd prefer that nice easy lob, so you've got the time to eye it down, size it up, take its measure, and then swing away the best you know how.
Otherwise there's a good chance someone's going to miss, or it'll go foul.
(Yes, that's right, we played our first mixed slo-pitch game of the season tonight and the analogies between it and life flooded over my like the odours wafting from my hand after it'd been in my glove for an inning or two. There's a lot of generosity in this game. You ump your own batter. There's a wide range of talent out there. And when things don't go well, it's best to laugh and take it easy. Tonight we split the double header, which is about right for slo-pitch. Nobody loses, everybody wins.)
Ride report
in: 16'C wind 15ks SSW
out: 23'C wind 15 ks NNE
So think about slo-pitch the next time you're asking someone you work with to pick up something for you, or just move things along a little quicker. Think about how you'd prefer that nice easy lob, so you've got the time to eye it down, size it up, take its measure, and then swing away the best you know how.
Otherwise there's a good chance someone's going to miss, or it'll go foul.
(Yes, that's right, we played our first mixed slo-pitch game of the season tonight and the analogies between it and life flooded over my like the odours wafting from my hand after it'd been in my glove for an inning or two. There's a lot of generosity in this game. You ump your own batter. There's a wide range of talent out there. And when things don't go well, it's best to laugh and take it easy. Tonight we split the double header, which is about right for slo-pitch. Nobody loses, everybody wins.)
Ride report
in: 16'C wind 15ks SSW
out: 23'C wind 15 ks NNE
05 June 2011
Being sick
So after a quick toast to the end of the week (at a disreputable local establishment of course) I headed home for an evening of R'n'R. What could be better? The ride was fine, with a good strong tailwind, and supper was a nice egg frittata. The first sign that something was up was my lack of appetite for a tasty beverage to accompany my evening repast. You see, that's a wonderful way to usher in a relaxed evening, yet I had no yen for it. Strange.
After said supper, a low ache developed around my lower back, almost like I'd had too much coffee and too few bathroom breaks and my kidneys were crying for mercy. But all of this, other than the ache, was not the case. Still I sallied forth to complete a small task (to right the wrongs done by winter and frost heaves to the back patio table which, through its attachment to the ground via the post that holds up the canopy pieces for the hops plant to vine itself around ... you probably don't get the picture ..., had become lifted and tilted). Throughout this job my patience shortened, and the aches lengthened. And by the time I had the table too far apart to just stop the job, I knew that a flu of some sort had taken hold of me, and that I was going to be laid up in a short time.
I told myself to focus, though my head was starting to spin and my knees to wobble, and I finished the job. I think. Then (and this is about one and a half hours after supper) I decide to slip into town to pick up a movie to help me in sickly stupor. That morbid ache is, at this point in time, travelling throughout my body. My mouth is gumming up. I have to tell myself to do things. Keep the truck on the road. Look at the road. Turn the signal lever up. Turn right. Slow down for town. And so on. I make it to the movie store and begin perusing the shelves. Of course I meet former and current students. I chat. I warn them that I'm sick, or I think I am. They laugh. They've known it all along. They humour me. We exchange movie recommendations. I can't begin to make a choice. I finally pick up Crazy Heart, not thinking that watching Jeff Bridges play a drunk who is mostly sick and puking throughout the movie, may not help me (though in fact it was strangely cathartic!). I apologize a few times to young Carson (I'm sure he was shaking his head as I left) and head back to the truck.
More deep breathing and slow incantations of instructions to hands and arms and legs and brain and I make it home. Park the truck. Walk inside with the movie. Find my laptop and the power supply. Walk with it into the bedroom. Undress (I'll spare you the salacious details) and, already shivering, set up the movie, get it playing, and then lie down beside it, cocooning like a fetus.
I was able to get through the movie. I'm glad Bad got sober, and I'm pretty sure that if my real name was Otis and I started using it again, I'd sober up too - if, indeed, I needed sobering up, but it wasn't the best movie I've ever seen, nor was it Jeff Bridges best performance. I still like him though, and I'm always surprized by Colin Farrell, and Maggie Gyllenhaal can do no wrong, if you ask me. All this did not alter the fact that I was now completely, utterly sick, in a way that no capsule could reasonably help me. (I was offered a T3 by M, but I knew I didn't need to be more deluded.)
I stayed in bed for the whole night. Then I stayed in bed until about 2:30 PM on Saturday. I was still feeling very bad, but in a "maybe if I change places I'll feel different" sort of way, I got up and lurched to the couch to watch some TV. I also had my first drink of water since supper the night before. I slept on the couch, with the TV on, till about 4:30 PM and then, awaking in a sweat and even more pain because my neck was cricked in the corner by the armrest, I stumbled back to bed to sweat out the last (hopefully) mighty spasms of fever. Between 5 and 9 PM the fever waved in and out like a Lake Manitoba deluge and I sweated and shivered and moaned and muttered (you don't want to know). About half way through the third period, when the Canucks tied the game, I was able to focus on the screen (I'd had the energy to stream the game on my laptop of course) and not wince and turn away because of the headache pain.
Then I made an odd decision (even for me! I know!). When I was convinced the fever had broken, I got up, found the Tylenol, got a glass of water, and took two capsules. My logic? To make sure I could sleep. It worked. I had a good night. When I woke up I still had a bit of that gummy mouth feeling but I had enough appetite for toast and coffee. I was through the worst.
None of this, of course, can make up for the day I've lost. I might try to mark it as a full rest day, but I think it'll simply remain as a 24 hour hole in the timeline of my existence. Except, of course, for the record that this blog will provide for time immemorial, or as long as the internet gods allow.
Amen?!
03 June 2011
Vision collision
You realize that each of these musings deserves more time and thought and references. So I apologize for throwing some of this stuff out there based almost solely on my own limited experience and observation, and largely without documentation. Whatever the case, in my line of work it is not uncommon (as I get older) to encounter a misunderstanding, or a full-on talking past one another situation, across the generations. Kids these days, eh. Sometimes it's hard to gap'em.
Anywhoo. Like I said, here goes, without enough documentation or enough experience ... today I was engaging some bright young folks on the finer points of game animation. (I am no gamer. I think games are a big deal. I don't have the time to play them. Though I think some day soon I'm going to give it a shot. (Not a FPS shot. By "shot" I mean "try".) I learned that there's significant difference between the animation quality of the opening sequences and the trailers new games, and the actual gameplay experience. Which, if you're a hardcore gamer (which I now take to mean that you pay attention to every detail of the game and may just play it because it looks good, even though the story's lame - that is, if you're hardcore you consider the whole game and will allow for a few weaknesses if at least one element of it is stellar) can be a bit off-putting. Well, this difference explains for me why games looks so damn much like movies in the ads, and then whenever I see someone playing one, I wonder what happened (and assume that something about the hardware is not quite measuring up).
I was, during my conversation with said gamers today, being a little narrowminded in my assessment of their choices (to play beautiful looking games despite poor story-writing), until I thought about it when I got home. I now have come to understand that perhaps the hardcore gamer, who will set aside a problematic element of a game simply because some other element makes it all worth it, is not so unlike me, who will read a novel that's thin on plot, simply because the prose style is so (to my taste) beautiful.
An example of such a novel would be J.M.G. Le Clezio's "the interrogation" which is, in fact, thin on plot, but big on style. As I consider why the novel works despite this seeming soft spot, I recognize immediately that there is no requirement for a novel, or any art form for that matter, to fully meet all of the so-called conventional characteristics of said genre. In fact the great pieces - the memorable ones - always "fall-short" significantly in one area, while they are simply overwhelmingly strong in another.
Isn't this because art reflects the artist, and his idiosyncracies, which are, in fact, her strengths? Of course. It's so obvious now. What more is there to say about this? Except perhaps to say that any critic worth paying attention to will absolutely not reduce a work of art to its weakest element, and will, absolutely, point out what's the strongest.
So here's come strong sentences from the above novel:
The sun went on blazing in the naked sky, and the countryside shrank back into itself, little by little, under the heat; the soil cracked in places, the grass turned a dirty yellow, sand heaped up in holes in the walls, and the trees were weighed down by dust.. It seemed as though the summer would never end. Now the fields and terraced hillsides were occupied by cruel hordes of grasshoppers and wasps. The rutted lanes ran through the tumult of their wings, cut like razor-blades through these excrescences of the air, these hot bubbles full of spicy scents, which jostled one another at stubble height. The atmosphere made unremitting efforts.
Men cycled across the fields, emerged on to the main road and mingled with the flood of cars (55).
Not too bad, I'd say. But the whole passage does nothing to advance the plot, which isn't really the point. The plot I mean. It isn't the point. Adam (the main character) doesn't do much of anything, except watch, and tell us why things aren't working for him. But his shabby, haphazard life is so beautifully rendered, so artfully detailed for me by the narrator, that I can't look away. I just have to keep reading. If the plot was good too, I might miss this point I think - that beauty comes at us in great variety and diversity.
Ride report
in: 10'C wind 25ks SE
out: 18'C wind 40-50ks SE
Anywhoo. Like I said, here goes, without enough documentation or enough experience ... today I was engaging some bright young folks on the finer points of game animation. (I am no gamer. I think games are a big deal. I don't have the time to play them. Though I think some day soon I'm going to give it a shot. (Not a FPS shot. By "shot" I mean "try".) I learned that there's significant difference between the animation quality of the opening sequences and the trailers new games, and the actual gameplay experience. Which, if you're a hardcore gamer (which I now take to mean that you pay attention to every detail of the game and may just play it because it looks good, even though the story's lame - that is, if you're hardcore you consider the whole game and will allow for a few weaknesses if at least one element of it is stellar) can be a bit off-putting. Well, this difference explains for me why games looks so damn much like movies in the ads, and then whenever I see someone playing one, I wonder what happened (and assume that something about the hardware is not quite measuring up).
I was, during my conversation with said gamers today, being a little narrowminded in my assessment of their choices (to play beautiful looking games despite poor story-writing), until I thought about it when I got home. I now have come to understand that perhaps the hardcore gamer, who will set aside a problematic element of a game simply because some other element makes it all worth it, is not so unlike me, who will read a novel that's thin on plot, simply because the prose style is so (to my taste) beautiful.
An example of such a novel would be J.M.G. Le Clezio's "the interrogation" which is, in fact, thin on plot, but big on style. As I consider why the novel works despite this seeming soft spot, I recognize immediately that there is no requirement for a novel, or any art form for that matter, to fully meet all of the so-called conventional characteristics of said genre. In fact the great pieces - the memorable ones - always "fall-short" significantly in one area, while they are simply overwhelmingly strong in another.
Isn't this because art reflects the artist, and his idiosyncracies, which are, in fact, her strengths? Of course. It's so obvious now. What more is there to say about this? Except perhaps to say that any critic worth paying attention to will absolutely not reduce a work of art to its weakest element, and will, absolutely, point out what's the strongest.
So here's come strong sentences from the above novel:
The sun went on blazing in the naked sky, and the countryside shrank back into itself, little by little, under the heat; the soil cracked in places, the grass turned a dirty yellow, sand heaped up in holes in the walls, and the trees were weighed down by dust.. It seemed as though the summer would never end. Now the fields and terraced hillsides were occupied by cruel hordes of grasshoppers and wasps. The rutted lanes ran through the tumult of their wings, cut like razor-blades through these excrescences of the air, these hot bubbles full of spicy scents, which jostled one another at stubble height. The atmosphere made unremitting efforts.
Men cycled across the fields, emerged on to the main road and mingled with the flood of cars (55).
Not too bad, I'd say. But the whole passage does nothing to advance the plot, which isn't really the point. The plot I mean. It isn't the point. Adam (the main character) doesn't do much of anything, except watch, and tell us why things aren't working for him. But his shabby, haphazard life is so beautifully rendered, so artfully detailed for me by the narrator, that I can't look away. I just have to keep reading. If the plot was good too, I might miss this point I think - that beauty comes at us in great variety and diversity.
Ride report
in: 10'C wind 25ks SE
out: 18'C wind 40-50ks SE
01 June 2011
Putting out the lights
When I'm the only one home and I'm busy at my end of the table working on things - you know, absorbed in one thing or another, occasionally getting up to grab something to eat or drink, but otherwise thinking about what I'm doing - I notice the evening light. Which I love. It's summer, or just about anyway. The sun hangs in the west - a most warm orange glow. With all of the windows in our place the sun fills it up and there's no need for electric lights. As the evening moves along and I work there are distinct moments in the movement of time. The light near dusk goes purple-blue to the south and blue-grey to the east, but I only notice it when I look up from the work, that the house is dimming. Now, the mood shifting into night, the question - the dilemma - is, which electric lights will serve, and not ruin the slow stall of nature. To be sure I could ignore the question and keep working until I can no longer see, and then the question would be moot. But I like transitions. I like the shifts. I want to participate in them. Watching the day turning to night, the earth and its firmament exhaling the last breath of it, I want to meet it with that new light. That human prayer that the light live on for a few moments more. That flipping of the switch - current crackling through wire veins - glass lungs incandescent. How should we be mindful of these moments? When we do more than participate. When we take over. When we add to what has been given. When we, our appetite for waking life (and fear of sleeping death) ruling us, ignore dusk, by extending it (and then also, often, absent ourselves from the gift of dawn as well). So it is that what we have made with our hands, will in some way also make and unmake our minds. So it is that we make the earth our own. A settled place where we ignore the gentle insistence of sunset and sunrise and in their place, turn on our lights.
Ride report
in: 8'C wind 25 ks NW
out: 15'C wind 20 ks NE
Ride report
in: 8'C wind 25 ks NW
out: 15'C wind 20 ks NE
Without fanfare or mourning
It's okay. I'd rather meet milestones without much fanfare or mourning. Tonight was one of those small moments. My youngest sang and played in her last school concert. We didn't take pictures. I watched from backstage because someone needed to sign up to supervise and no one else was doing it, so I did. (That's another personal issue I have to manage, in itself, to be sure.) I watched from the side. Watched her breathe in and out and play and sway and move and sing. It was, in its own way, a perfectly calm and joyful celebration, but it was another ending for her, and for us.
We're less than a month away from graduation and then it will be more or less final. That doesn't mean that the "parenting" is done, but it means that it gets different. It's been shifting that way anyway, so when the youngest one gets up and goes it doesn't feel quite as unsettling. But it will feel empty. We took some time to settle in to suppers for three, rather than four, much less five. Now we're down to two for the long haul - as they say.
You know, you spend time and money building a house and providing for these things called children, and then when they go you've got this stuff, and these ideas and expectations, still hanging around insisting on something. I don't know what. But you have to re-invent yourself. Before kids you're thinking about when and how many. When you have kids you're thinking about getting through the day, the week, the month, the year, the school, whatever. When you're kids leave you're wondering what to think about.
I know it won't be that abrupt, since they're still going to need money and help moving and money and a place to get stuff, or store stuff, and money, for a few years. Still you're confronted with a new quest for purpose. I, for one, look forward to sorting this out. Not that I want the kids out now, but I know it'll be a good thing for all of us when they head out to spend time away - without fanfare or mourning.
Ride report
in: 10'C wind 20 ks NW
out: 10'C wind 50 ks WNW
We're less than a month away from graduation and then it will be more or less final. That doesn't mean that the "parenting" is done, but it means that it gets different. It's been shifting that way anyway, so when the youngest one gets up and goes it doesn't feel quite as unsettling. But it will feel empty. We took some time to settle in to suppers for three, rather than four, much less five. Now we're down to two for the long haul - as they say.
You know, you spend time and money building a house and providing for these things called children, and then when they go you've got this stuff, and these ideas and expectations, still hanging around insisting on something. I don't know what. But you have to re-invent yourself. Before kids you're thinking about when and how many. When you have kids you're thinking about getting through the day, the week, the month, the year, the school, whatever. When you're kids leave you're wondering what to think about.
I know it won't be that abrupt, since they're still going to need money and help moving and money and a place to get stuff, or store stuff, and money, for a few years. Still you're confronted with a new quest for purpose. I, for one, look forward to sorting this out. Not that I want the kids out now, but I know it'll be a good thing for all of us when they head out to spend time away - without fanfare or mourning.
Ride report
in: 10'C wind 20 ks NW
out: 10'C wind 50 ks WNW
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