Happy New Year, 3 days into the new year

We ended staying home and drinking a nice bottle of Old Vine Zinfandel.  Ripe but not overwhelming.  We had snacks from Whole Foods and comforted the cats when the fireworks started.  Happy 2011. I look forward to seeing just what on earth is going to happen.

In the Sunday New York Times was a striking piece in their Modern Love series by Page McBee.   The paper uses a remarkable graphic to illustrate what their editors think the piece is saying.

McBee writes about her relationship with Michael, her partner and soon-to-be spouse. She invested her hope for the future in the actual marriage ceremony and how marriage would be transformational. Just before their marriage they are mugged. The emotional impact of this violent act is traumatic to both of them and threatens to tear them apart. The mugger is caught and in the relief that followed for Michael and Page they began to understand something about themselves and each other they had not understood before: Michael began to understand the traumatic impact of violent events before she met Page and Page understood that her anxiety and isolation created by her violent past was more universal than she thought.

Page is not alone in her feelings and Michael, feeling it herself, begins to understand the depths of Page’s feelings. The moment of transformation wasn’t some idealized notion of life after the wedding day but rather the transformation of their mutual victimization and their shared trauma.

I see Page’s revelation as the abrupt movement from wishing for a life different from her own but an impossible idealization to realizing that her life is her own and is not unique or perverse. It is just hers.

I’m writing a plodding literal translation of  a very good essay.  A wonderful read.  I learned something and felt connected to a person 3000 miles away and who has lived a life entirely different from my own.  Now THAT is some kind of writing.

I wish for Michael and Page what Marge Piercy writes in her poem Colors passing through us…. “Every day I will give you a color, / like a new flower in a bud vase / on your desk.”  What better gift to give and receive in a happy marriage.

Colors passing through us

BY MARGE PIERCY

Purple as tulips in May, mauve
into lush velvet, purple
as the stain blackberries leave
on the lips, on the hands,
the purple of ripe grapes
sunlit and warm as flesh.

Every day I will give you a color,
like a new flower in a bud vase
on your desk. Every day
I will paint you, as women
color each other with henna
on hands and on feet.

Red as henna, as cinnamon,
as coals after the fire is banked,
the cardinal in the feeder,
the roses tumbling on the arbor
their weight bending the wood
the red of the syrup I make from petals.

Orange as the perfumed fruit
hanging their globes on the glossy tree,
orange as pumpkins in the field,
orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs
who come to eat it, orange as my
cat running lithe through the high grass.

Yellow as a goat’s wise and wicked eyes,
yellow as a hill of daffodils,
yellow as dandelions by the highway,
yellow as butter and egg yolks,
yellow as a school bus stopping you,
yellow as a slicker in a downpour.

Here is my bouquet, here is a sing
song of all the things you make
me think of, here is oblique
praise for the height and depth
of you and the width too.
Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.

Green as mint jelly, green
as a frog on a lily pad twanging,
the green of cos lettuce upright
about to bolt into opulent towers,
green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear
glass, green as wine bottles.

Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,
bachelors’ buttons. Blue as Roquefort,
blue as Saga. Blue as still water.
Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.
Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring
azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.

Cobalt as the midnight sky
when day has gone without a trace
and we lie in each other’s arms
eyes shut and fingers open
and all the colors of the world
pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

Here, Here Again

Well, I am back to retirement after an interesting journey through the post-retirement job world. After retiring from the FAA at the end of 2006 I taught a management course for new TSA supervisors for a bit, edited some ATC curriculum materials part-time, worked in a college testing center for a couple of years part-time, joined a national company who had just gotten the FAA training contract, and a big consulting firm working on a variety of FAA initiatives.

That took four years, almost precisely — December 2006 through October 2010. I stopped my blog because I was no longer retired. But I am again even if it is a bit unwillingly.

I left the testing job to work full-time in ATC (air traffic control) training. But the job I applied for was not the job for which I interviewed and the job I actually practiced was not the job I interviewed for. My manager endlessly reminded me that the job was not his idea but rather HIS boss’ idea and the FAA was constantly hounding him to justify my job. He said I had to justify the job to the FAA.  I told him that seemed like reverse reasoning — don’t you create a job because of the value THE EMPLOYER thinks it will add. But he approached it from the other way — now that I’ve hired you for a job I haven’t spent a moment thinking about YOU justify why this job should be there. I did what I thought I was supposed to do and what needed to be done but I never received any meaningful guidance from my manager and I was never sure anyone other than the trainers in the field valued the work. Very uncomfortable.

Beyond that I was working 10 or 12 hours a day and traveling constantly. Once the novelty of jumping on airplanes with short notice wore off this travel became tedious. In any given week I’d get a call on Sunday to be in Albuquerque or Chicago on Monday morning, or get a call while in Chicago with a ticket back home to be in Denver on Friday morning and expect to stay over the weekend for meetings on Monday.

So I left this company for a consulting firm promising me little travel tons of contract work (“I’m working 12 hours a day to keep up and I need you to get this workload down,” I was told by the fellow who offered me the job). Four months into this job the contracts dried up and I was without work.

Quite an experience. I know it was crazy to quit the training job but I truly hated it and with my FAA pension I didn’t need it to live comfortably.  With the job I got to live more comfortably.  Now I’m back to being far more cognizant of what I spend.

Taking stock: still married with our 35th anniversary here on January 17th; a cancer survivor who went through chemo in 2010; 61 years old; otherwise in general good health but with an increasing number of aches and pains and small inconveniences; a house paid off this month; health insurance; intellectual projects at hand to keep me mentally active and a routine to keep me physically active.  Not so bad.

Anyway, I’m back again. And I’ll work to avoid Edward Thomas’ bleak vision of aging.  Here, Here Again and not Gone, Gone Again.

Gone, Gone Again

BY EDWARD THOMAS

Gone, gone again,

May, June, July,

And August gone,

Again gone by,

 

Not memorable

Save that I saw them go,

As past the empty quays

The rivers flow.

 

And now again,

In the harvest rain,

The Blenheim oranges

Fall grubby from the trees,

 

As when I was young—

And when the lost one was here—

And when the war began

To turn young men to dung.

 

Look at the old house,

Outmoded, dignified,

Dark and untenanted,

With grass growing instead

 

Of the footsteps of life,

The friendliness, the strife;

In its beds have lain

Youth, love, age, and pain:

 

I am something like that;

Only I am not dead,

Still breathing and interested

In the house that is not dark:—

 

I am something like that:

Not one pane to reflect the sun,

For the schoolboys to throw at—

They have broken every one.

——–Source: Poems (1917)

I’m Back

Much like this iconic image I have returned to this blog. I lost the username and password when I reformatted my computer and didn’t find my copy until today, all this time later.  I’ll start up again tomorrow.

Formal Job Offer

It’s Official

After several false starts over the past week leading towards a formal offer and a promise that I would get a call on Friday. Sure enough, I got a call at 4:45 pm on Friday formally offering me the job at a salary 20% higher than the other desirable job offer that ended up not working out.

Calendar

What I don’t know yet is when I’ll start.  Still some paperwork to do and, evidently, some corporate processing of everything, but I think the date will be between 9/14 and 9/28.  So here I go back into the full-time work world. Gulp.

At the end of the week I’m heading up to the mountains for a week. Then I’ll return and move into my new job. Of course, since I’m not tied to an office I could even work from the mountains if I choose.  Looking forward to the mountains in late summer.

Ski Run in Summer

Every morning when I’m up there I take a walk to the top of the mountain. I walk past all the ski runs, now overgrown with wild grass.  It is a lovely and calming sight, I must say. I feel restored every time I take this walk.

During my walk I pass an overlook. When the view is not obscured by fog or by haze I walk over and take a look at the bowl created by the intersection of the east/west and north/south ridges. At the intersection of the ridge is where the ski runs begin and descend into the bowl. The bowl opens to the north and northwest. Here you can see the ski run I walk past later in my walk. The top of the run is 5,500 feet elevation.

New Camera

I bought a new camera and tried it out at the zoo last week. It is a mega-zoom digital but not DSLR.  But better than my old camera. Here is a photo of a new baby giraffe and its mother.

Well, the camera put the grass behind the giraffes in focus rather than the giraffes. I need to work on technique.

Here is a picture of our large tuxedo, Milo. What is he trying to say?

So goodbye retirement, for the time being. While we are not “born for battle only”, I return to a hopefully gentler fray then the one I left in 2006.

Retirement

by Henry Timrod

My gentle friend! I hold no creed so false

As that which dares to teach that we are born

For battle only, and that in this life

The soul, if it would burn with starlike power,

Must needs forsooth be kindled by the sparks

Struck from the shock of clashing human hearts.

There is a wisdom that grows up in strife,

And one—I like it best—that sits at home

And learns its lessons of a thoughtful ease.

So come! a lonely house awaits thee!—there

Nor praise, nor blame shall reach us, save what love

Of knowledge for itself shall wake at times

In our own bosoms; come! and we will build

A wall of quiet thought, and gentle books,

Betwixt us and the hard and bitter world.

Sometimes—for we need not be anchorites—

A distant friend shall cheer us through the Post,

Or some Gazette—of course no partisan—

Shall bring us pleasant news of pleasant things;

Then, twisted into graceful allumettes,

Each ancient joke shall blaze with genuine flame

To light our pipes and candles; but to wars,

Whether of words or weapons, we shall be

Deaf—so we twain shall pass away the time

Ev’n as a pair of happy lovers, who,

Alone, within some quiet garden-nook,

With a clear night of stars above their heads,

Just hear, betwixt their kisses and their talk,

The tumult of a tempest rolling through

A chain of neighboring mountains; they awhile

Pause to admire a flash that only shows

The smile upon their faces, but, full soon,

Turn with a quick, glad impulse, and perhaps

A conscious wile that brings them closer yet,

To dally with their own fond hearts, and play

With the sweet flowers that blossom at their feet.

—-Source: The Collected Poems of Henry Timrod (1965)

Back Again

WHAT HAVE I BEEN DOING?

I’ve been gone for quite a while but now am back, I think.  My blog name is not so accurate anymore. I’ve been working at the local community college for several years part-time.

FSCJ Logo

I’ve enjoyed the mission of the college: serve a traditionally under-served urban population that is primarily African-American and immigrants.  I’ve helped hundreds of immigrants with choosing English language classes that meet their skill level, talked to them about their trip to America, suggested paths to the education they need to succeed in the United States. I’ve tested hundreds upon hundreds of students trying to get into academic programs to get their GEDs, high school diplomas, vocational certificates, college degrees.

I’ve been happy to do that at FSCJ.  My fellow workmates often are a challenge, as they are anywhere. I will miss some but many others I will soon happily forget. The scope of the job is fairly small — administer tests, advise students of test results and where to go for additional information and training, administer GED, CLEP, ACT/SAT exams, and Florida Teacher Certification Exams. Perfect for a retired, part-time worker looking to stay connected to the outside world and make a little money to do things like put a roof on our house, remodel bathrooms and kitchens, put Hardieplank siding up.

You can see how nice it looks now. Doesn’t even look like siding.

I’ve tried to spend more time in the North Carolina mountains.  Lovely during the summer — highs in the 60′s and 70′s, lows in the 50′s and 60′s.  But the winter and spring is something else: high winds, fog, cold temps. Just generally unhospitable.

Here’s an example:

The wind was out of the north at 30 mph and the temperature was around 40. Just your average spring day at 5,000 feet elevation!!

NOW SOMETHING NEW

During my time at FSCJ I’ve cast around for other things to do as well. Once I started working again after being retired for 9 months I realized I wouldn’t mind working full-time again. I put in a number of applications.

Richard Deftly Applying For Jobs.

Mostly they were ignored, thrown in the trash, left in computer queues, crumpled up, X’ed out, tossed in fireplace, recycled, used underneath bird cages, pointed at as objects of derision.

Occasionally I would get an interview which were polite and satisfyingly engaging but rarely turned into anything beyond a discussion between strangers.  But several went better than that.

I was offered a curriculum job at the FAA Training Academy in Oklahoma City which didn’t work out at all. While I like Oklahoma City just fine, having spent a lot of time in software classes there, I didn’t want to make it my permanent home. I was also offered a database manager job with a school system nearby but the IT manager was a little too much like my old FAA manager. I said “No thanks”.

But recently, as the economy took a nosedive, I’ve had two job offers.

I'm the smiling one in the middle.

The first one was with a big UK defense firm that has expanded to include government operations on both sides of the Atlantic. I was to work as a systems analyst in Washington DC. My wife and I discussed it and thought we could work it out especially since the job paid a salary well into the 6-figures. However, as it turned out, personal circumstances intervened and I was unable to take the job even though I had already gone to Arlington, VA to find a place to live. But some things are not meant to happen.

Fortune’s Wheel

My wife explained it to me. You see, Rota Fortunae sometimes intervenes in the affairs of men and women, a point made vividly to Peter I of Cyprus in as described by Chaucer in  The Canterbury Tales:

O noble Peter, Cyprus’ lord and king,

Which Alexander won by mastery,

To many a heathen ruin did’st thou bring;

For this thy lords had so much jealousy,

That, for no crime save thy high chivalry,

All in thy bed they slew thee on a morrow.

And thus does Fortune’s wheel turn treacherously

And out of happiness bring men to sorrow.

And this from Boccaccio’s De Casibus Virorum Illustrium Paris: 1467

The illustration shows Boccaccio pointing to the goddess Fortune who stands beside a wheel upon which her victims rise and fall.

I’m happy to say that the wheel did not out of happiness bring me to sorrow.

And this victim, such as I may be, did not rise and fall but rather continued to rise, if I may say so without seeming impossibly egotistical.

Cooler Job

Now I’ve been offered an even cooler job. The scope is much broader and I get to telecommute from Jacksonville. I have the informal job offer but will give more details when the formal job offer comes this week.

What Work Is

BY PHILIP LEVINE

We stand in the rain in a long line

waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.

You know what work is—if you’re

old enough to read this you know what

work is, although you may not do it.

Forget you. This is about waiting,

shifting from one foot to another.

Feeling the light rain falling like mist

into your hair, blurring your vision

until you think you see your own brother

ahead of you, maybe ten places.

You rub your glasses with your fingers,

and of course it’s someone else’s brother,

narrower across the shoulders than

yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin

that does not hide the stubbornness,

the sad refusal to give in to

rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,

to the knowledge that somewhere ahead

a man is waiting who will say, “No,

we’re not hiring today,” for any

reason he wants. You love your brother,

now suddenly you can hardly stand

the love flooding you for your brother,

who’s not beside you or behind or

ahead because he’s home trying to

sleep off a miserable night shift

at Cadillac so he can get up

before noon to study his German.

Works eight hours a night so he can sing

Wagner, the opera you hate most,

the worst music ever invented.

How long has it been since you told him

you loved him, held his wide shoulders,

opened your eyes wide and said those words,

and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never

done something so simple, so obvious,

not because you’re too young or too dumb,

not because you’re jealous or even mean

or incapable of crying in

the presence of another man, no,

just because you don’t know what work is.

“What Work Is” from What Work Is.  1992

Lots of Rain

 

Lots of Rain

If I look at rainfall totals in June through today we’ve had about 13.3 inches. The drought definitely is over for the time being. A couple of months ago all we talked about were the proliferation of Florida fires.  Hard to imagine more than 33,000 acres burned in May. CNN has some nice video on the fires. 

Fire as Narcissism

Carl Hiaasen often talks about Florida as a haven for every sort of wacko. He was interviewed by a former Florida journalist on 60 Minutes two years ago:

the craziness of Florida provides a certain anonymity to all sorts of wackos, even terrorists. And if the place wasn’t so dysfunctional, Hiaasen says maybe something could have been done about that. 

He offers a number of examples

“The court had ruled it ‘Gators In Bed is Bad Idea,’” says Hiaasen, referring to one clipping. “This was a story about a guy who was sleeping with two full-grown alligators. And a court ruled that he had no constitutional right to sleep with an endangered reptile. And that happened in Florida.” 

And

“Here’s a guy who was stealing medical equipment, He surrenders. It’s — he was unhooking patients from their heart monitors and stealing the heart monitors. This was in West Palm Beach,” says Hiaasen, referring to another clipping. “That’s quite a crime when you think about it. The guys on a heart monitor. ‘Excuse me while I take the machine.’” 

Florida invites wackos into their midst:

The tourists eventually go home. But for Hiaasen, the larger problem is the thousand people who move here every day. Most of them, he says, are either running to something or from something. Many of them are retirees looking for a slice of paradise, and some are predators who consider them prey. 

“Half the guys who get booted off of Wall Street by the SCC are now working in Boca Raton, Florida,” says Hiaasen. 

Another reason Florida has become so desirable for undesirables is it has the most generous bankruptcy laws in the country — so people facing the prospect of jail or civil judgments buy houses here knowing they can’t be seized. A number of former executives from Tyco and WorldCom have already moved here, along with a few down and out celebrities. 

Even OJ is here

“You know, after the second O.J. Simpson trial, I see his lawyer being interviewed on the steps of court house,” says Hiaasen. “You know, ‘Mr. Simpson may have to leave California. He doesn’t have this kind of money, and he may have to leave California.’ And I turned to my wife and I said, ‘He’s coming to Florida.’ And here he is, you know.” 

And this has WHAT to do with fires and narcissism?

Bob Jones in Florida where fires reflect God's Intentions.

Bob Jones toddled down to Lakeland recently where he described to Florida revivalists 

 how profound it was that the Florida Healing Revival and fire of God was soaring throughout Florida to the world, and in conjunction with that, the forest fires in Florida are also tearing across the land.

Certainly, the forest fires are a trajedy, but we noted how much of a confirmation it was that both spiritual and natural fires were ablaze.

Fires = the success of Jones’ revival and the strength of his followers’ faith. Can I be misinterpreting this?  Well, Jones also suggests

in one of his prophetic encounters…Bob was told that the enemy is vigorously working to steal the “dreams” of God’s people. Primarily, the dreams consist of hopes and aspirations birthed in the spirit of Christians that motivate them in prayer and set them on their prophetic journey. 

The enemy is trying to steal dreams which are manifested in the spirit. Spiritual fires are confirmed by the tragic Florida fires this spring, thus fighting fires facilitates the victory of  God’s enemies.

I’m sure if this was explicated to Jones he would say that is ridiculous. But in his own focus on his personal expression of belief he allows the tragedies of others serve as a marketing hook for his own business.  I think this can be defined as narcissistic (excessive self-admiration and self-centeredness). 

We do attract wackos. Of course I am not talking about myself here.

 

God Loves You, And So Do I

Because it is what he says always, to anyone
(the dull girl in the tollbooth at the Triboro Bridge,
the wrong number who calls every night at nine,
the lamed colostomist who checks his colon,
even the stone-faced trooper who stops him
for driving 30 on the New York Thruway), my father,
the old Hassid from Frankfurt, passes through this life
in the vague service of some deific love,
and now I-having passed through hate
and back into love again-find myself saying it too
as we scud down the turnpike from Bar Harbor to Boston,
and a vague, generalized tenderness comes over me
in which I am the large man who carries his father
like unleavened bread, the one appointed
to shake the seeds of his ancestry into the day,
and, as we cruise down the highway
of tollbooths and diners, I become once more
the wild ideologue of my father’s life-a man
waiving a white handkerchief into the air as he
plays the harmonica, calling out
to anyone who will listen:
“God loves you, and so do I.”

            ———————–from The Wages of Goodness by Michael Blumenthal

Back Home

The Drive Up and Back

The drive up to the mountains and back was not as bad as it has been in the past. With gas prices so high some drivers appear to be slowing down. And in the summer heat we saw dozens of cars with their windows open to reduce gas consumption. I calculated we spent about $225 just getting there and back.

Just Because They Love The Mountains Does Not Mean They Are Green

But I’ve noticed that people with mountain vacation homes are not the greenest of people. While I am at the very low end of the spectrum, mountain vacation home people are incredible drains on resources. In the case of our mountain, we have chosen to live at 5,000 feet elevation. Everything has to be transported up here from the flatlands. Not a small majority drive big SUVs that only get 14 mpg on straight and level roads. On winding, mountainous roads they might be getting 10.  Up and down the mountains, doing errands, picking up new bedsheets and a nice bottle of Cabernet Savignon.

No Gas Saved Here.

Well, OK, this picture is in Colorado, but you get the idea. Add to that the idea of surplus….

Economic Surplus

Where We All Want To Be.

All of these people are in that are of consumer surplus. The line rising left to right represent prices and the line dropping from left to right is income. When you have more income than needed to pay for goods, that area labelled consumer surplus, you on top of the world and looking for a place to display your economic prowess. Some invest in houses in the mountains. What could have less utility than a place you stay on only occasionally and requires enormous resources to supply?

It’s ugly but that is where we are.

Nevertheless, it’s wonderful there and I wouldn’t give it up for some egalitarian principle.

Why I Suffer The Disease of Economic Surplus…

Here’s a vista from an outcropping I pass each day I walk to the top of the mountain:

Looking into the bowl between ridges.

Not to mention the views from our deck:

Looking East From Our Deck

Matchless view just a few steps from our living room.

Not to mention what I get to see when I get to the top of the mountain.

What I see at the Top.

This ski run goes down the back side of the mountain. Even in summer it’s chilly up here — The day I took this photo the temp was 44 degrees.

At the psychological bottom of economic surplus is the will to avoid just what Philip Booth does in his poem just below — to compulsively count out the small measure given to us in a lifetime. To blot out worry, anticipation, the bad we intentionally or unintentionally leave in our wake. To swerve around the pinched equlibrium of this poem: if I’m not sorry I worry,/if I can’t worry I count.

Adding It Up

My mind’s eye opens before
the light gets up. I
lie awake in the small dark,
figuring payments, or how
to scrape paint; I count
rich women I didn’t marry.
I measure bicycle miles
I pedaled last Thursday
to take off weight; I give some
passing thought to the point
that if I hadn’t turned poet
I might well be some other
sort of accountant. Before
the sun reports its own weather
my mind is openly at it:
I chart my annual rainfall,
or how I’ll plant seed if
I live to be fifty. I look up
words like “bilateral symmetry”
in my mind’s dictionary; I consider
the bivalve mollusc, re-pick
last summer’s mussels on Condon Point,
preview the next red tide, and
hold my breath: I listen hard
to how my heart valves are doing.
I try not to get going
too early: bladder permitting,
I mean to stay in bed until six;
I think in spirals, building
horizon pyramids, yielding to
no man’s flag but my own.
I think a lot of Saul Steinberg:
I play touch football on one leg,
I seesaw on the old cliff, trying
to balance things out: job,
wife, children, myself.
My mind’s eye opens before
my body is ready for its
first duty: cleaning up after
an old-maid Basset in heat.
That, too, I inventory:
the Puritan strain will out,
even at six a.m.; sun or no sun,
I’m Puritan to the bone, down to
the marrow and then some:
if I’m not sorry I worry,
if I can’t worry I count.

———Philip Booth, “Adding It Up” from Lifelines: Selected Poems 1950-1999