Some days are for dwelling on the past. Some are for preparing for the future. And some are for leaving.
Tomorrow, I'm going to Germany. I'll be there for 12 days, exploring places like Düsseldorf, Aachen, Saarbrücken, and Bochum. I'll go to a wedding. I'll go on a boat tour. I'll visit various UNESCO World Heritage sites by bus. I will see beautiful art and architecture. I will see places that have been emblazoned across the annals of history. I will eat delicious food, and spend time with awesome friends. This will be my first time in Europe, and I'm extremely excited.
I doubt that I'll be doing much posting from Europe; I'm not bringing a computer, so I'll just have my phone as a wifi device to access the internet. But rest assured that I will be taking a fair number of photos, and definitely subjecting you to them on my return.
This trip has me thinking a lot about my last (and only other) international excursion (not counting Canada, of course; who would?): Japan. Now, I was in Japan for four solid months, so there aren't really a lot of comparisons. But I went back and looked at some pictures from my time in Japan, and it completely blew me away to see how much I've changed. That was six years ago, but it feels almost like looking at a completely different person. Even the facial expressions I see myself making -- I don't think I can do those anymore. Some pieces of me that I carried for so long, just left behind somewhere along the way...
The most major difference, though, is in my self-perception. Back then, I would have told you I was quite a loud person, and I was; I talked all the time, I talked to anybody, and I talked freely about my opinions. I wasn't quite as ear-puncturing in volume as some people I've known, but I was a loudmouth. Nowadays, I will tell you that I'm a quiet person. That absolutely isn't true, but it's how I feel about myself.
My wife says that it isn't actually that I'm quiet; instead, she thinks I'm wiser now, and less prone to shooting my mouth off just for the attention. And yes, the histrionics have largely ceased. But oh, how I miss them. I used to believe, in my heart of hearts, that any attention was good attention. This caused, I am sure, several people to grow tired of my company. But did that attitude, at the same time, grant me the courage to reach out and make even more friends than it may have cost? Then again, would those friends simply be less discriminating, and I'm the worse off for permitting myself to have associated with them?!?!
It doesn't matter now. The Japanese have a saying: the nail that stands out will be hammered down. But Japan didn't obliterate my desire to be noticed; that personality change happened in law school. Law school is a place you should go if you are good at not being noticed, I think, because evading the piercing gaze of the professors as they pitch their impossible questions at you will be the skill you develop the most if you decide to attend. Law schools claim to celebrate their outstanding students; in reality, nothing is celebrated. The ego exists merely to be broken down.
And so it was with me. Any self-confidence I possessed was shattered upon my arrival in that new place. My youthful, eager heart was torn out, replaced with an empty, mechanical organ that nourishes the body, but never the soul.
I looked at those pictures of myself from Japan -- a boy with a face that was designed to draw people in, intended to convey all the exciting things I wanted to talk about with you -- and I wondered if there was a way to get that feeling back. I don't want to go back in time; I don't want to be cursed with that pathological drive to be the center of attention. But maybe there's some way to want it without needing it.
So I looked at those pictures, then I looked in a mirror and started practicing expressions. I'm going to Germany, you see, and I'm going to gather some amazing stories to share with people. I want to be able to see in the eyes of my listeners that I've taken them with me, that I've managed to get across some small part of what made the trip truly special (as I'm sure it will be). I'm going to smile, and put that twinkle in my eyes, and you'll all be carried away.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Monday, July 8, 2013
in vesania, veritas
The brain boils.
I don't mean from the heat (although it is horrendously hot). Sometimes, my mind reaches a point where it stirs itself into a frenzy of misery-thought, and I'm left to deal with the consequences. There are a few common causes for such a state: an acrimonious argument with someone I'm close to, a realization or reminder of a personal failing of mine, an acknowledgment of life's inherent unfairness, and being forced to listen to hypocrites compliment themselves are frequent catalysts for a descent into unutterable moodiness. But that's odd, because I woke up feeling fine, and I didn't experience any of the above today. It was, all in all, a lovely and relaxing day, with a few significant victories. And yet.
When I get like this, the primary effect is that my brain refuses to allow me to go to sleep. It's not that I'm miserable; it's just that I'm so mentally fixated on whatever problem has presented itself that I'm unable to slow down my consciousness. This is different, though, from the kinds of challenges I talked about before. These aren't challenges; they're conundra, and the essential difference is that I don't believe they have solutions. Focusing all of your mental energy on problems that don't have solutions is not a recipe for mental happy times! And yet.
For that reason, I'm trying to put a lot of thought into what constitutes escapism for me. All of us have little hobbies or distractions that pull us away from our stressors long enough for us to recuperate a bit. I'm just not sure what mine are anymore. If you had asked me a few years ago, I would happily have answered that I like to play video games and read to relax. And that's still true, to an extent, but now I try to limit myself to games and books that are deeply challenging. To be challenged while consuming media requires that you're going to be uncomfortable, and discomfort doesn't make for very good escapism.
I guess the kind of thing I'm looking for would be considered a guilty pleasure, something that asks very little of me, something mindless. But I find such things infinitely boring! Who wants to be mindless?
My mom often tells me that my brain is always busy, that I don't have any idea how to truly relax. She says it as though it's a character flaw, something I need to fix about myself before I can be fully happy. And she might be right, because there are certainly times when I'm not happy. All of us have those times, I'm sure, but how many of us lose an entire night's sleep when they roll around?
I can't count how many times I've stared at the dark ceiling for hours, only to have my sleepless repose ended by the morning chirps of avian alarm clocks. It's a terrible feeling every time, especially because you know those dang birds just got a good night's sleep.
Now, it's not like I have chronic insomnia. This doesn't really happen more than once every couple of months (although, depending on how upset I am, it can last for several days). And there are certain advantages to being freed from the all-consuming tendrils of sleep: it gives your subconscious the opportunity to run rampant, expressing itself in all its madness in the waking world for a time. For example, here's a sheet of paper I scribbled on during one such night recently:
I'd just read Cat's Cradle, so I scrawled Ice-9 in there. And the little sketches of the man and the stylized bird's head are purely incidental. Everything else, and I mean everything else on that page (other than the pen marks in the corner) is intimately connected and a fully honest manifestation of my stream of consciousness as I sat on the porch at 2am, stared at the street, and tried to find some way to quiet my maddeningly busy mind.
I know what it all means, but I'm not about to tell you. The fun is in the guessing. The last time I felt this way, I scribbled all over that sheet of paper. This time, I'm scribbling all over this one. Be my guests, friends. In a sense, it helped me sleep. I wish it could help me now.
go home to your wife and family
I don't mean from the heat (although it is horrendously hot). Sometimes, my mind reaches a point where it stirs itself into a frenzy of misery-thought, and I'm left to deal with the consequences. There are a few common causes for such a state: an acrimonious argument with someone I'm close to, a realization or reminder of a personal failing of mine, an acknowledgment of life's inherent unfairness, and being forced to listen to hypocrites compliment themselves are frequent catalysts for a descent into unutterable moodiness. But that's odd, because I woke up feeling fine, and I didn't experience any of the above today. It was, all in all, a lovely and relaxing day, with a few significant victories. And yet.
When I get like this, the primary effect is that my brain refuses to allow me to go to sleep. It's not that I'm miserable; it's just that I'm so mentally fixated on whatever problem has presented itself that I'm unable to slow down my consciousness. This is different, though, from the kinds of challenges I talked about before. These aren't challenges; they're conundra, and the essential difference is that I don't believe they have solutions. Focusing all of your mental energy on problems that don't have solutions is not a recipe for mental happy times! And yet.
For that reason, I'm trying to put a lot of thought into what constitutes escapism for me. All of us have little hobbies or distractions that pull us away from our stressors long enough for us to recuperate a bit. I'm just not sure what mine are anymore. If you had asked me a few years ago, I would happily have answered that I like to play video games and read to relax. And that's still true, to an extent, but now I try to limit myself to games and books that are deeply challenging. To be challenged while consuming media requires that you're going to be uncomfortable, and discomfort doesn't make for very good escapism.
I guess the kind of thing I'm looking for would be considered a guilty pleasure, something that asks very little of me, something mindless. But I find such things infinitely boring! Who wants to be mindless?
My mom often tells me that my brain is always busy, that I don't have any idea how to truly relax. She says it as though it's a character flaw, something I need to fix about myself before I can be fully happy. And she might be right, because there are certainly times when I'm not happy. All of us have those times, I'm sure, but how many of us lose an entire night's sleep when they roll around?
I can't count how many times I've stared at the dark ceiling for hours, only to have my sleepless repose ended by the morning chirps of avian alarm clocks. It's a terrible feeling every time, especially because you know those dang birds just got a good night's sleep.
Now, it's not like I have chronic insomnia. This doesn't really happen more than once every couple of months (although, depending on how upset I am, it can last for several days). And there are certain advantages to being freed from the all-consuming tendrils of sleep: it gives your subconscious the opportunity to run rampant, expressing itself in all its madness in the waking world for a time. For example, here's a sheet of paper I scribbled on during one such night recently:
I'd just read Cat's Cradle, so I scrawled Ice-9 in there. And the little sketches of the man and the stylized bird's head are purely incidental. Everything else, and I mean everything else on that page (other than the pen marks in the corner) is intimately connected and a fully honest manifestation of my stream of consciousness as I sat on the porch at 2am, stared at the street, and tried to find some way to quiet my maddeningly busy mind.
I know what it all means, but I'm not about to tell you. The fun is in the guessing. The last time I felt this way, I scribbled all over that sheet of paper. This time, I'm scribbling all over this one. Be my guests, friends. In a sense, it helped me sleep. I wish it could help me now.
go home to your wife and family
Friday, July 5, 2013
freedom has fees, but failure frees
Like many cold-blooded Americans, I'm spending this week at the beach. My particular beach of choice would be Ocean City, NJ; I've been coming here for at least one week every summer since I was a wee lad. I've made an expert study of its surface, and none whatsoever of its substance. In a sense, I vacation in a fantasy Ocean City, and we never need to learn each other's foibles. I am the consummate happy vacationer, and she, the city, is the perfect destination.
Of course, I'm surrounded by family. The crazy ballet of transportation, food, and sleeping arrangements send my sanity into frequent tailspins, but it's still a whole lot of fun. My siblings' and cousins' kids are running around all over the place with the frenetic energy reserved to those below the age of reason, flinging open every closed door without so much as a how-do-you-do. Although my wife and I are lucky enough to have our own room, we need to be constantly vigilant with the door lock, lest an impressionable four-year-old in an Iron Man costume catch us in media res.
Which has led me to consider, given the sheer quantity of families arrayed in similar circumstances this week every year, just how many poor children are hideously scarred for life by being forced into such unfamiliar proximity with their relatives as part of a simple holiday celebration. Personally, I can't recall ever stumbling across such an unknowable tableaux in my youth (though I had plenty else to scar me), although it's always possible I could simply have blocked it out of my memory! But still, I am forced to go through life with the sad certainty that I have never seen what should not have been seen.
Today, my wife took my second cousins to cavort in the waves, and I took some time to watch them repeat the eternal cycle of being knocked down by the bigger waves, then getting up just in time to be knocked over again. I recalled how much I enjoyed the same when I was younger (and admittedly, would still enjoy it today, if I could find anybody willing to enjoy it alongside me [my wife being unwilling to approach any waves tall enough to actually knock either of us over]); there was just something so gratifying in allowing myself to be felled, only to rise again, stronger and more able to withstand the next onslaught. Nothing in the water ever delighted me so much as pitching myself against the great forces of nature embodied by the towering crests, and little has ever made me feel as alive as dragging myself back up from the sea floor to await the next crushing swell.
Is that what living means? To lose your footing, to be knocked under, to flirt with the sweetly grasping claws of suffocation, only to reject it all, plant your feet firmly once more, and to stand tall, laughing as the water runs from you?
That seems to jive with my experience. When I don't feel particularly challenged -- when I'm lacking any sense of a struggle -- life loses all its vim. I find myself whiling away the days miserably, trying to figure out what's missing. Then, as soon as a problem, adventure, or challenge presents itself, all of my energy is restored in an instant. Without the potential for failure, I lose all sense of success. When I'm comfortable, you could give me a million years, and I wouldn't produce anything sharing with a kindergarten class. When I'm struggling, there aren't enough hours for me to find an outlet for all of the creative energy I have. And that's in excess of the excitement and energy I devote simply to solving the primary problem, whatever it might be.
Even now that I'm grown, as I stand on the shore and watch the myriad swirls of clouds of sand beneath the water, I still long for those waves to come and knock me down. And sure, the idea that struggle gives life meaning isn't a new one. But I think life is just a series of failures -- of waves that knock us down -- and it's impossible for us to become strong enough that we can't be pulled under. But sometimes, we rise, and for whatever reason, we're given a brief reprieve before the next wave comes along -- and we call that a success.
Don't spend your life hoping not to fail, or yearning for successes. Spend your life cherishing your failures and doing your best to keep on your feet, and you might learn that success oftentimes finds you.
used to be one of the rotten ones and I liked you for that
Of course, I'm surrounded by family. The crazy ballet of transportation, food, and sleeping arrangements send my sanity into frequent tailspins, but it's still a whole lot of fun. My siblings' and cousins' kids are running around all over the place with the frenetic energy reserved to those below the age of reason, flinging open every closed door without so much as a how-do-you-do. Although my wife and I are lucky enough to have our own room, we need to be constantly vigilant with the door lock, lest an impressionable four-year-old in an Iron Man costume catch us in media res.
Which has led me to consider, given the sheer quantity of families arrayed in similar circumstances this week every year, just how many poor children are hideously scarred for life by being forced into such unfamiliar proximity with their relatives as part of a simple holiday celebration. Personally, I can't recall ever stumbling across such an unknowable tableaux in my youth (though I had plenty else to scar me), although it's always possible I could simply have blocked it out of my memory! But still, I am forced to go through life with the sad certainty that I have never seen what should not have been seen.
Today, my wife took my second cousins to cavort in the waves, and I took some time to watch them repeat the eternal cycle of being knocked down by the bigger waves, then getting up just in time to be knocked over again. I recalled how much I enjoyed the same when I was younger (and admittedly, would still enjoy it today, if I could find anybody willing to enjoy it alongside me [my wife being unwilling to approach any waves tall enough to actually knock either of us over]); there was just something so gratifying in allowing myself to be felled, only to rise again, stronger and more able to withstand the next onslaught. Nothing in the water ever delighted me so much as pitching myself against the great forces of nature embodied by the towering crests, and little has ever made me feel as alive as dragging myself back up from the sea floor to await the next crushing swell.
Is that what living means? To lose your footing, to be knocked under, to flirt with the sweetly grasping claws of suffocation, only to reject it all, plant your feet firmly once more, and to stand tall, laughing as the water runs from you?
That seems to jive with my experience. When I don't feel particularly challenged -- when I'm lacking any sense of a struggle -- life loses all its vim. I find myself whiling away the days miserably, trying to figure out what's missing. Then, as soon as a problem, adventure, or challenge presents itself, all of my energy is restored in an instant. Without the potential for failure, I lose all sense of success. When I'm comfortable, you could give me a million years, and I wouldn't produce anything sharing with a kindergarten class. When I'm struggling, there aren't enough hours for me to find an outlet for all of the creative energy I have. And that's in excess of the excitement and energy I devote simply to solving the primary problem, whatever it might be.
Even now that I'm grown, as I stand on the shore and watch the myriad swirls of clouds of sand beneath the water, I still long for those waves to come and knock me down. And sure, the idea that struggle gives life meaning isn't a new one. But I think life is just a series of failures -- of waves that knock us down -- and it's impossible for us to become strong enough that we can't be pulled under. But sometimes, we rise, and for whatever reason, we're given a brief reprieve before the next wave comes along -- and we call that a success.
Don't spend your life hoping not to fail, or yearning for successes. Spend your life cherishing your failures and doing your best to keep on your feet, and you might learn that success oftentimes finds you.
used to be one of the rotten ones and I liked you for that
Thursday, June 27, 2013
the waltz of polymatheia
It's been a while since we had a poem. Buckle up:
With each step, a synapse flared, turned his head to follow
The Unluckiest Man
It was the early morning, the sun too drowsy still
To do much more than streak the walls of the old dance hall,
When he mistook the door, entering but to see
That glittering, spinning dynamo, and lose his mind.
He lost it in a modern sense, handed off control
To her, who just innocently practiced her footwork.
She didn’t know how he fixed on every leap and turn,
Never saw his widened eyes or heard his quickened heartbeat.
Her bright blue dress’s hem traced curving rhythms in the
air,
Its infinite swirl obliterating his defense.
And she alit with careless softness, her feet finding
Purchase in the grey and crooked wrinkles of his mind.
With each step, a synapse flared, turned his head to follow
Her, who took no notice of the man she had entranced.
He looked for the words, but even as he gathered them
She twirled again, scattering neurons like a sparkler.
Before he was ready, still too soon, she finished,
stretched,
Stepped out of her shoes and left them, buried, in his mind.
I based this poem off of my experiences going to competitive ballroom dancing competitions. My wife is an absolutely fantastic dancer, and she goes to these sorts of competitions many times throughout the year. Occasionally, I tag along to offer support, but there isn't much for me to do except clap and be amazed by the incredible skill on display.
I am not a person who is naturally inclined to dance. I've told you before that I lack much in the way of an aesthetic sensibility, but I'm afraid the problem is much worse with regard to my kinesthetic sense. If I'm not fully focused on my motion, I tend to move less like a prancing dolphin, and more like a ship coming into harbor (specifically, the Costa Concordia). You might think that one with so little grace as myself would be especially impressed by the smoothness of motion embodied by the finest dancers, and that's not a bad guess ! However, when you view a lumbering rhinoceros as a creature of refined and economical movement in comparison to yourself, it tends to make you a little too easily impressed. So most dancing just kind of washes over me, firmly within the realm of "things that are so far beyond my understanding that I cannot even fully perceive them."
And yet, there are times when I'm watching a couple doing a routine, and somehow, the fluidity and synchronicity of their dancing clicks in my mind. It's like, after you've spent many hours studying a difficult problem, that sense of suddenly seeing the answer. For those few short minutes while they spin around each other invincibly, I somehow get it. Not just the fun or the appeal of dancing, but the actual beauty and genius that can both go into and come out of it. A couple times, I've been moved to tears by what I've seen.
I am a writer, and that means that I absolutely envy the ability to bring out that sort of emotional reaction in people. Other emotional reactions are wonderful too, but the finest of them will always reduce your audience to a sobbing mess. And so, in those brief moments of heightened dance-comprehension, I find myself filled with the powerful urge to become a better dancer. To learn what it takes to get out and there and move others as well as myself.
Those feelings will last for a little while, and I might even find myself practicing some dance steps or something. But, inevitably, I'll crack open a book, or listen to some music, or watch a movie, and that will produce a powerful emotional reaction in me as well. And just like that, the intense focus I'd had on the one thing is shattered, replaced with the burning desire to excel as a writer, a musician, a director...or whatever other craft is needed to connect with people in the way I've most recently been affected.
Maybe I don't have the discipline to be more than pretty good at anything I choose. Maybe I'm destined to never be anything other than a jack-of-all-trades. When I was younger, the idea that I might never becoming absolutely excellent in anything would have been absolutely repellent to me. Now that I'm a little wiser, I've seen that there are plenty of people who never even become pretty good at anything, choosing to fritter away whatever natural gifts they may have into an empty and purposeless life of parasitism and zero personal growth. And I still have plenty of time to excel in many, many ways. But the discipline has to come first, and I'm not sure that I know how to develop it.
all I ever wanted help with was you
Thursday, June 13, 2013
the pitter-patter of extremely tiny feet
Are you skittish? Do you fear rodents? Does the idea of their tiny little paws and claws walking across your arms and legs bother you? If so, you should read no farther.
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Still here? Excellent! You're in for the CUTE OVERLOAD of a lifetime. I'm about to tell you about the cutest pets I've ever owned -- my pet rats:
These are the first pet rats I ever had. The white one's name was Nymeria, and the brown one was Arya.
My wife works at a career & technical high school, and one of their programs is Veterinary Science. To get the students used to working around animals, they keep a bunch of rats around; they're easy to handle and cheap to replace. Well, one night, a couple of the female rats managed to break out, and found their way into the male rats' cage. A month later, there were many, many more rats in the Veterinary Science department than they could comfortably keep. The call went out to adopt them, and my wife, who'd spent a lot of time getting to know the cute critters, put our name in for a couple. So they came home to us.
At first, we put them in an aquarium to live, but we soon realized that the lack of aeration and climbing surfaces was a major detriment to a couple of young rats on-the-go. The smell was bad, and they were bored out of our minds. Luckily, we were able to find a guy selling an iguana cage on craigslist, and it worked perfectly! It had multiple levels that they could climb between, plenty of room to put in a little nest box, and a removable tray for the bedding! The girls took to it immediately, and were climbing and playing with abandon before we knew it.
We liked to take them out of the cage to play, although sometimes that was a mistake. Nymeria was pretty sociable, and willing to sit on your shoulder for long periods of time, but Arya was a bit of an escape artist, constantly trying to sneak away and explore. Shortly after we brought them home, we set up some space on our couch for them to run around and play. Nymeria had a grand old time, but Arya just wouldn't stop slipping under the cushions. Eventually we got tired of fishing her out, and pulled the cushions off, only to find that she had wormed her way through a hole in the fabric into the structure of the couch itself! We spent over an hour trying to lure her out with peanut butter, but she was just too wily. In the end, we were forced to cut the back of the couch open to get her out. We learned a lesson that day: DO NOT LET ARYA OUT OF YOUR SIGHT.
Rats only live for a couple of years, and we made the most of it. We let the girls ride around on our shoulders while we went about our daily tasks. We bought them treats and toys, hid food in crazy places in their cage, gave them baths, watched them wrestle, and learned to love having them in our home and in our lives. We took them on vacation! They were an important part of our family. But nothing lasts forever.
About a year after we got them, Nymeria developed a recurring sneeze. We were a little concerned, but it didn't seem to be bothering her, so we just kept an eye on her. Eventually, though, we noticed a bump growing on her nose. It grew larger and larger, until eventually it was interfering with her eating and drinking. We tried everything we could; we even got her some dog antibiotics, and it helped a lot, but they ran out and it just continued growing. She tore it open a few times, but it didn't help; we could tell that she was in a lot of pain, but we didn't know what to do. We agreed that it wasn't worth taking a rat in to a veterinarian, so we just tried to make her as comfortable as possible.
One morning, I woke up and went into the living room to find Nymeria lying on the floor of her cage, stretched out and stiffened. Her nose was torn open, but her sister was just staying away from the body. We placed her in a shoebox with some of her toys, packed it with newspaper, and duct-taped it shut. Then we went out to the dumpster, lowered her in respectfully, and said a few words about what a great pet she had been. My wife cried, and I wanted to, but I knew I had to stay strong for her.
We were concerned about Arya -- rats are very social creatures, and without a playmate, we thought she might suffer some mental issues. But she seemed to get over her sister's death without difficulty; when we got them, Nymeria had been the dominant one, but over the course of her sickness, Arya had slowly come to win most of their wrestling matches. And it seemed that the newly dominant Arya didn't mind being alone at all. Besides, she was nearing old age herself. She continued on running around and playing as though her sister were still in the cage with her.
Arya slowed down gradually, until one day she started to have what appeared to be a seizure. She got over it after a few minutes, but it seemed to have permanently damaged her control of one of her legs; after that, she moved around very slowly, and occasionally would just spin in circles when she tried to walk. She became less and less interested in playing or climbing, until she finally decided to just stay on the bottom floor of her cage. But before too long, even eating food seemed to require more coordination than she could handle.
I tried to nurse her along by feeding her peanut butter (it had always been their favorite food) and giving her rags soaked with water to suck on, and that seemed to bring her to her senses a little. After a few days of that, she was back to eating food on her own, and was a lot more active. But it was not to last. She soon lost interest in eating again, and even the peanut butter I tried to give her had lost its allure.
One night, she seemed to be breathing heavily. I wrapped her up in a little towel and took her out of the cage, trying to give her what comfort I could. I held her, and in the light of the TV show I'd been watching, I felt her heart beating more and more slowly, until finally she went still. I showed her to my wife, who, without speaking, went and got a shoe box. We gave her the same burial her sister had gotten, but this time, I let myself cry.
Losing a pet is hard -- even a short-lived one like a rat. We talked about getting more, but both of us knew we weren't really ready for that. So it went, for months and months -- we cleaned their cage out, and it sat there, empty, sterile, lifeless.
But a few weeks ago my wife mentioned that the Veterinary Science department was looking for some people to provide a foster home for some rats over the summer. It would only be a few months, and then they'd be going right back. But it would give us the chance to put the cage back together. It would give us the chance to come home to some squeaky little creatures who were nothing but interested in us. It would put a lot of cuteness back in our lives, and it would make us very happy. It would give us a family again.
A few days ago, my wife brought home our new girls. Just for the summer, but ours nonetheless.
Rose and Eva:
It's going to be a really fun summer; that much is certain.
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Still here? Excellent! You're in for the CUTE OVERLOAD of a lifetime. I'm about to tell you about the cutest pets I've ever owned -- my pet rats:
These are the first pet rats I ever had. The white one's name was Nymeria, and the brown one was Arya.
My wife works at a career & technical high school, and one of their programs is Veterinary Science. To get the students used to working around animals, they keep a bunch of rats around; they're easy to handle and cheap to replace. Well, one night, a couple of the female rats managed to break out, and found their way into the male rats' cage. A month later, there were many, many more rats in the Veterinary Science department than they could comfortably keep. The call went out to adopt them, and my wife, who'd spent a lot of time getting to know the cute critters, put our name in for a couple. So they came home to us.
At first, we put them in an aquarium to live, but we soon realized that the lack of aeration and climbing surfaces was a major detriment to a couple of young rats on-the-go. The smell was bad, and they were bored out of our minds. Luckily, we were able to find a guy selling an iguana cage on craigslist, and it worked perfectly! It had multiple levels that they could climb between, plenty of room to put in a little nest box, and a removable tray for the bedding! The girls took to it immediately, and were climbing and playing with abandon before we knew it.
We liked to take them out of the cage to play, although sometimes that was a mistake. Nymeria was pretty sociable, and willing to sit on your shoulder for long periods of time, but Arya was a bit of an escape artist, constantly trying to sneak away and explore. Shortly after we brought them home, we set up some space on our couch for them to run around and play. Nymeria had a grand old time, but Arya just wouldn't stop slipping under the cushions. Eventually we got tired of fishing her out, and pulled the cushions off, only to find that she had wormed her way through a hole in the fabric into the structure of the couch itself! We spent over an hour trying to lure her out with peanut butter, but she was just too wily. In the end, we were forced to cut the back of the couch open to get her out. We learned a lesson that day: DO NOT LET ARYA OUT OF YOUR SIGHT.
Rats only live for a couple of years, and we made the most of it. We let the girls ride around on our shoulders while we went about our daily tasks. We bought them treats and toys, hid food in crazy places in their cage, gave them baths, watched them wrestle, and learned to love having them in our home and in our lives. We took them on vacation! They were an important part of our family. But nothing lasts forever.
About a year after we got them, Nymeria developed a recurring sneeze. We were a little concerned, but it didn't seem to be bothering her, so we just kept an eye on her. Eventually, though, we noticed a bump growing on her nose. It grew larger and larger, until eventually it was interfering with her eating and drinking. We tried everything we could; we even got her some dog antibiotics, and it helped a lot, but they ran out and it just continued growing. She tore it open a few times, but it didn't help; we could tell that she was in a lot of pain, but we didn't know what to do. We agreed that it wasn't worth taking a rat in to a veterinarian, so we just tried to make her as comfortable as possible.
One morning, I woke up and went into the living room to find Nymeria lying on the floor of her cage, stretched out and stiffened. Her nose was torn open, but her sister was just staying away from the body. We placed her in a shoebox with some of her toys, packed it with newspaper, and duct-taped it shut. Then we went out to the dumpster, lowered her in respectfully, and said a few words about what a great pet she had been. My wife cried, and I wanted to, but I knew I had to stay strong for her.
We were concerned about Arya -- rats are very social creatures, and without a playmate, we thought she might suffer some mental issues. But she seemed to get over her sister's death without difficulty; when we got them, Nymeria had been the dominant one, but over the course of her sickness, Arya had slowly come to win most of their wrestling matches. And it seemed that the newly dominant Arya didn't mind being alone at all. Besides, she was nearing old age herself. She continued on running around and playing as though her sister were still in the cage with her.
Arya slowed down gradually, until one day she started to have what appeared to be a seizure. She got over it after a few minutes, but it seemed to have permanently damaged her control of one of her legs; after that, she moved around very slowly, and occasionally would just spin in circles when she tried to walk. She became less and less interested in playing or climbing, until she finally decided to just stay on the bottom floor of her cage. But before too long, even eating food seemed to require more coordination than she could handle.
I tried to nurse her along by feeding her peanut butter (it had always been their favorite food) and giving her rags soaked with water to suck on, and that seemed to bring her to her senses a little. After a few days of that, she was back to eating food on her own, and was a lot more active. But it was not to last. She soon lost interest in eating again, and even the peanut butter I tried to give her had lost its allure.
One night, she seemed to be breathing heavily. I wrapped her up in a little towel and took her out of the cage, trying to give her what comfort I could. I held her, and in the light of the TV show I'd been watching, I felt her heart beating more and more slowly, until finally she went still. I showed her to my wife, who, without speaking, went and got a shoe box. We gave her the same burial her sister had gotten, but this time, I let myself cry.
Losing a pet is hard -- even a short-lived one like a rat. We talked about getting more, but both of us knew we weren't really ready for that. So it went, for months and months -- we cleaned their cage out, and it sat there, empty, sterile, lifeless.
But a few weeks ago my wife mentioned that the Veterinary Science department was looking for some people to provide a foster home for some rats over the summer. It would only be a few months, and then they'd be going right back. But it would give us the chance to put the cage back together. It would give us the chance to come home to some squeaky little creatures who were nothing but interested in us. It would put a lot of cuteness back in our lives, and it would make us very happy. It would give us a family again.
A few days ago, my wife brought home our new girls. Just for the summer, but ours nonetheless.
Rose and Eva:
 |
| My wife wants to call them different names, Notches and...I don't even know. The names she picked are terrible. |
It's going to be a really fun summer; that much is certain.
Monday, June 10, 2013
yearnings from a silent heart
What a weekend.
Somehow I have spent the last 22 years of my life living in southeastern Pennsylvania without ever having heard of an absolutely incredible annual event: World War II Weekend at the Mid-Atlantic Air Museum in Reading, PA. But this year, I heard about it. This year, I went. And it was absolutely fantastic.
But before I did that, I ate Korean BBQ:
Korean BBQ is probably the most perfect food in the world. I don't know why we ever eat anything else. I mean, take another look:
Big props to my friend 57, who is the first person ever to show me the joys of Korean BBQ. 57, I couldn't really appreciate it at the time, but I love you for it now.
But back to the World War II show! A friend of mine mentioned it to me, and I knew I had to be there. As someone who likes WWII enough to have written a book with that as the setting, it was a very exciting thing for me to attend.
Also, being that my book is about tanks, you can bet I was excited when I saw this:
There were re-enactors everywhere dressed in authentic uniforms, arranged by unit into camps with all sorts of genuine WWII military hardware lying around. Terrifying SS officers made the rounds as well, striking fear into our hearts. A miniature French village served as the set for a series of mock battles between US soldiers and the Wehrmacht (German army); all the while, fighter and bomber planes zipped overhead, tilting to give us a better view of their sleekly engineered beauty as they navigated the friendly skies of Reading.
It was loud. It was muddy. It was crowded, I was hungry, and it wasn't cheap. But it was amazing, and I will be going back there every year for as long as I can make it work. These things call to me, you know? All those vehicles -- they all actually move! And there were a bunch of historical figures wandering around, from FDR to MacArthur, from Frank Sinatra to some old gangsters (wait, do I repeat myself?)!
The day closed out with a big band playing swing music while we danced with abandon in an old hangar. It was raucous good times, especially because a bunch of dance clubs came out dressed for the period! It was a hoot and a holler to see the gents and dames ready for a night on the town, to watch GIs spin their lady-friends with easy aplomb. Plus, I saw a few Indiana Jones villains dancing with old ladies, which was fantastic. I also learned that I really appreciate what 40's fashions do for the female figure! The hairstyles are pretty awesome, as well. When are those going to come back?
I went with my wife, and she is a competitive ballroom dancer, so of course I couldn't keep up with her on the dance floor. After a few dances where I gave it my all, I stepped out of the way so she could find a competent dance partner and get down to the serious business of sock-hopping, and I wandered off to see what I might see. Out there on the tarmac, I found something that had been missing all my life.
Arrayed in even rows over the airfield were all of the planes that had flown that day: slender, nimble fighter planes, thick and sturdy bombers, boxy training planes, gigantic transports, and a dozen unassuming biplanes made up only a small portion of the total flying machines that had been left to watch the night's festivities in somber repose. In the dark, I walked among them all, admiring the engineering genius and care that had gone into designing and building such excellent planes. I was able to reach out and touch them, to feel the thickness of their metal hides, to see the little sutures where one sheet of aluminum connected to the next and understand their construction in a new way. I was able to push the planes and feel the slightest give, to see how superbly they were balanced. I was able to stand in almost complete silence, the only sound being the distant noise of the dance, and pay my respects to these behemoths, large and small, that served and continue to serve with faith, speed, and strength.
I stood amidst the planes, and found I was almost overcome with tears; some deep part of me had only ever wanted this, had only ever wanted to be this close to them. I have always had an interest in flight, as you must know; but even if I never fly them, in that moment, just being able to touch them was enough. It moved me, fundamentally; it fulfilled a dream that I hadn't even known I had.
That's why I know I'm going back. The rest of the day was surely spectacular, but it was no more than that: spectacle. What I experienced walking around in the dark, with those planes as my only companions, involved me in a serious and special way. That was the point when I knew that I would have to return, if only so I'd have the chance to once again commune with those princes of the sky.
and love is the ink in the well when her body writes
Somehow I have spent the last 22 years of my life living in southeastern Pennsylvania without ever having heard of an absolutely incredible annual event: World War II Weekend at the Mid-Atlantic Air Museum in Reading, PA. But this year, I heard about it. This year, I went. And it was absolutely fantastic.
But before I did that, I ate Korean BBQ:
 |
| (not pictured: incredibly delicious seafood pancake) |
Korean BBQ is probably the most perfect food in the world. I don't know why we ever eat anything else. I mean, take another look:
Big props to my friend 57, who is the first person ever to show me the joys of Korean BBQ. 57, I couldn't really appreciate it at the time, but I love you for it now.
But back to the World War II show! A friend of mine mentioned it to me, and I knew I had to be there. As someone who likes WWII enough to have written a book with that as the setting, it was a very exciting thing for me to attend.
 |
| A proud P-51 Mustang. I saw this flying just a few minutes before it was being wheeled past here. |
Also, being that my book is about tanks, you can bet I was excited when I saw this:
 |
| A German tank destroyer, the SturmGeschütz IV ("Assault Gun"). Not technically a tank, but still awesome. |
There were re-enactors everywhere dressed in authentic uniforms, arranged by unit into camps with all sorts of genuine WWII military hardware lying around. Terrifying SS officers made the rounds as well, striking fear into our hearts. A miniature French village served as the set for a series of mock battles between US soldiers and the Wehrmacht (German army); all the while, fighter and bomber planes zipped overhead, tilting to give us a better view of their sleekly engineered beauty as they navigated the friendly skies of Reading.
It was loud. It was muddy. It was crowded, I was hungry, and it wasn't cheap. But it was amazing, and I will be going back there every year for as long as I can make it work. These things call to me, you know? All those vehicles -- they all actually move! And there were a bunch of historical figures wandering around, from FDR to MacArthur, from Frank Sinatra to some old gangsters (wait, do I repeat myself?)!
The day closed out with a big band playing swing music while we danced with abandon in an old hangar. It was raucous good times, especially because a bunch of dance clubs came out dressed for the period! It was a hoot and a holler to see the gents and dames ready for a night on the town, to watch GIs spin their lady-friends with easy aplomb. Plus, I saw a few Indiana Jones villains dancing with old ladies, which was fantastic. I also learned that I really appreciate what 40's fashions do for the female figure! The hairstyles are pretty awesome, as well. When are those going to come back?
I went with my wife, and she is a competitive ballroom dancer, so of course I couldn't keep up with her on the dance floor. After a few dances where I gave it my all, I stepped out of the way so she could find a competent dance partner and get down to the serious business of sock-hopping, and I wandered off to see what I might see. Out there on the tarmac, I found something that had been missing all my life.
Arrayed in even rows over the airfield were all of the planes that had flown that day: slender, nimble fighter planes, thick and sturdy bombers, boxy training planes, gigantic transports, and a dozen unassuming biplanes made up only a small portion of the total flying machines that had been left to watch the night's festivities in somber repose. In the dark, I walked among them all, admiring the engineering genius and care that had gone into designing and building such excellent planes. I was able to reach out and touch them, to feel the thickness of their metal hides, to see the little sutures where one sheet of aluminum connected to the next and understand their construction in a new way. I was able to push the planes and feel the slightest give, to see how superbly they were balanced. I was able to stand in almost complete silence, the only sound being the distant noise of the dance, and pay my respects to these behemoths, large and small, that served and continue to serve with faith, speed, and strength.
I stood amidst the planes, and found I was almost overcome with tears; some deep part of me had only ever wanted this, had only ever wanted to be this close to them. I have always had an interest in flight, as you must know; but even if I never fly them, in that moment, just being able to touch them was enough. It moved me, fundamentally; it fulfilled a dream that I hadn't even known I had.
That's why I know I'm going back. The rest of the day was surely spectacular, but it was no more than that: spectacle. What I experienced walking around in the dark, with those planes as my only companions, involved me in a serious and special way. That was the point when I knew that I would have to return, if only so I'd have the chance to once again commune with those princes of the sky.
and love is the ink in the well when her body writes
Thursday, June 6, 2013
by the polar order
You know, I really don't want this to be a once-a-week kind of blog; it just so happens that I've been preoccupied lately. That means you're going to have to deal with a lot of unrelated nonsense coming together now, for which I apologize deeply.
Now, the things that have been preoccupying me: writing! Germany!!
I started editing my book, and so far I've gotten through about 10% of my first go-through, which is aimed mostly at fixing basic spelling and grammar errors, improving readability of some sections, and noting which parts need a rewrite or to have something added to them. It's tremendously fun, not at all the busywork I had imagined; still, it's also really stressful to be confronted with all the mistakes I made in the writing process. Granted, I was writing under serious pressure, but I have to maintain certain standards of self-disparagement, or I'll never learn.
And, every now and again, I come across a passage that I really like, and I feel great about myself! I just wish I could remember the secret blend of diet, sleep, and daily rituals that put me in the mode of writing beautifully on some days, and awfully on others.
Ok, so what else is cooking? Just that my wife and I are going to Germany! We booked our tickets, and we'll be shipping out for the second half of July. I've got a lot to prepare. I have to figure out if my phone will be usable with a SIM card in Europe. I have to brush up on my German. And I have to decide whether seeing the resting place of Charlemagne is worth the several-hour train ride...
But oh man, to see the place where Europe's greatest king was crowned Holy Roman Emperor! I mean, the Holy Roman Empire wasn't formed yet, it was a purely ceremonial title, but still...that is some rock-solid history. And history is a large part of what I am about.
I've been thinking about history a lot lately, and especially the idea of history repeating itself. The concept that events can happen in a similar configuration over and over, with only the actors and their circumstances changing, is really appealing to me, even if it's a little absurd. But what interests me even more is how this might tie into individual lives -- if we don't change, are we doomed to repeat the same kinds of interactions over and over again? Are there cycles of action-reaction that we are locked into by our personalities? Will the circle be unbroken?
Personal growth, I know, is hugely important if you want to engage with the world in a positive way. And I deeply, deeply want that! It's easy, when you aren't happy, to see the world as a mucky, unkind place, more prone to granting the wishes of the undeserving than we unfortunates. That's why I cherish every little reminder that the world is a wonderful place, full of humor and joy. For example:
If a penguin can become a knight, surely the world has room for any of us to achieve our dreams. It's just a matter of being brave enough to waddle up to them.
Now, the things that have been preoccupying me: writing! Germany!!
I started editing my book, and so far I've gotten through about 10% of my first go-through, which is aimed mostly at fixing basic spelling and grammar errors, improving readability of some sections, and noting which parts need a rewrite or to have something added to them. It's tremendously fun, not at all the busywork I had imagined; still, it's also really stressful to be confronted with all the mistakes I made in the writing process. Granted, I was writing under serious pressure, but I have to maintain certain standards of self-disparagement, or I'll never learn.
And, every now and again, I come across a passage that I really like, and I feel great about myself! I just wish I could remember the secret blend of diet, sleep, and daily rituals that put me in the mode of writing beautifully on some days, and awfully on others.
Ok, so what else is cooking? Just that my wife and I are going to Germany! We booked our tickets, and we'll be shipping out for the second half of July. I've got a lot to prepare. I have to figure out if my phone will be usable with a SIM card in Europe. I have to brush up on my German. And I have to decide whether seeing the resting place of Charlemagne is worth the several-hour train ride...
But oh man, to see the place where Europe's greatest king was crowned Holy Roman Emperor! I mean, the Holy Roman Empire wasn't formed yet, it was a purely ceremonial title, but still...that is some rock-solid history. And history is a large part of what I am about.
I've been thinking about history a lot lately, and especially the idea of history repeating itself. The concept that events can happen in a similar configuration over and over, with only the actors and their circumstances changing, is really appealing to me, even if it's a little absurd. But what interests me even more is how this might tie into individual lives -- if we don't change, are we doomed to repeat the same kinds of interactions over and over again? Are there cycles of action-reaction that we are locked into by our personalities? Will the circle be unbroken?
Personal growth, I know, is hugely important if you want to engage with the world in a positive way. And I deeply, deeply want that! It's easy, when you aren't happy, to see the world as a mucky, unkind place, more prone to granting the wishes of the undeserving than we unfortunates. That's why I cherish every little reminder that the world is a wonderful place, full of humor and joy. For example:
If a penguin can become a knight, surely the world has room for any of us to achieve our dreams. It's just a matter of being brave enough to waddle up to them.
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