Another Throwback

For reasons that I won't get into, I took a poetry class in college. Okay the foremost reason was that I needed an English class and it fit my schedule. 

It was a reading poetry class, not a writing poetry class, I made sure of this. Read and discuss poetry; c'mon that's cake.

And it would've been. Except that every class started the same way, writing out last night's poem from memory. Actually we got to choose from five or so. To memorize. Including punctuation.

Had I known that we would be expected to memorize anything I would not have taken the class.

What's worse, I quickly learned that any failure to reproduce a poem, would not result in, oh, say a B or a C like any normal class. Instead I received my paper back with a note: Incomplete, see me.

Oh this did not go over well. Are you fucking kidding me I have to meet with him because I missed one word and a comma?!! 

So after the class came to an end, I started making my way to the front of the room only to find myself in a group of twenty or so students. Oh fuck this.

So I left, thinking it would be easier next time. 

I got to Waterman early the next time. I sat on the floor against the wall outside the classroom and stared at my notebook, where I had copied the day's poem over and over. 

As we sat down, I pulled out a blank page and began to rewrite the thing I had been staring at only a few minutes before. I began to tighten up, sweat, and scribble quickly. I passed my paper forward, knowing that once again, I didn't get it right.

I got the same note on my paper and again found myself too pissed, too stubborn, and too stupid to stick around after class.

What I should've done was drop the class before the end of the add/drop period. Okay, what I really should've done was talk with the professor. But at this point I think I was too bothered by the idiocy of his methods. 

Instead I tried a couple more times until I was nearing the withdrawal deadline. Nothing changed and I begrudgingly met with my advisor (who I had never met) to withdraw from the class. She gave me a form for the professor to sign and I finally had to schedule a meeting with him.

So I bring the form to the office of one Huck Gutman (name-drop) in the Old Mill, and ask out of his class. He was prepared, had looked me up. Instead of asking, as most would, Why is a business major taking poetry? he decided on another direction.

You're a business major right? How do you expect to be successful if you can't even do this? It was very belittling. I'm not sure that I had had my intelligence insulted quite like that. 

I shrugged. I was not mature or confident enough to snap back at his completely illogical bullshit. Plus I needed him to sign the form.

I'm not sure what would've followed had I said something like, Are you kidding?! Do you actually think that an inability to memorize poetry will have any impact on my life? Then I would've kicked him in the balls, paused to laugh at his pain, and walked out.

No, I wouldn't do that. I have wanted to in some way show him how full of shit he was, but it's probably best to let it go.

Nothing makes me angrier than seeing people irresponsibly spreading lies on social media. 

I got out for another cruise around in my chair yesterday. Despite the muddy driveway and an unfortunate run-in with some wintertime dog shit, it was an enjoyable afternoon. My mom and I explored the old cemetery, a few hundred yards from our house. 

A few dozen graves on a small square cut into the woods east of Gilman Road, it's easily missed. Visitors find no place to park a car; without regular maintenance it would disappear into the woods altogether. A short distance north sits the oldest surviving house in the area, a small 1 1/2 story brick number that dates from the late 18th century. A bit further south is a big 1810 brick colonial at the corner of Hines Road. As in Hinesburg.

The graveyard is situated atop a hill high above the La Platte River, only you'd never know it. I imagine there was a time, before all those trees took back their rightful places, that there would've been a commanding view to the east. 

The oldest stones take up the back of the property, just inside the fence before the drop-off to the river. Five or six small, thin, nearly identical headstones dating from the 1840s make up a tidy back row. Every stone faces the road, precisely perpendicular. Most are barely legible.

If you've ever taken a look around an old cemetery, you know that the deceased ages vary much more than you might care to know. At quick glance we noticed the grave of four-year-old Sally. The most prominent monument remembers the reverend's wife, who passed in 1875. Another memorable stone was engraved with both date of birth and death, a seemingly rare practice for the period (most indicate date of death and age) 1767-1864. 

I just spent far more time writing about that cemetery than I did exploring it. On the way back to the house I observed a number of things I hadn't quite noticed in the hundreds of times I'd approached the driveway. Little things, the three different species of evergreens alongside, and the view of the trailhead parking lot through the woods. The things you see when you take the car away.

Here’s another phenomenon that I find interesting. When a song comes on the radio that you own and like and could listen to whenever you want, you are excited to hear it. When cruising the channels it seems people will watch almost anything, but when given a huge variety of choices, nothing is good enough. Maybe it's the sheer number of choices, like a menu with too many options. Give me five choices and I'll be satisfied. Have we really been trained to decide what's best from infinite options? Why are we all convinced that there is a right answer? I guess (at least some) people have a sort of unconscious bias towards simplicity. Or maybe they'd rather relax and be told what to do. I guess there are others that enjoy the search, the opportunity to seek out something different. 

What kind of person are you? Do you seek out new music, movies, books, foods, vacations? Or would you rather go with something you know, and like, or take a recommendation from a friend?

On Validation

A few years ago I saw an interview with former Cleveland Browns star (really, it was a long time ago), actor, and civil rights activist Jim Brown. Among other things, he was asked about the state of race relations in the country. In the course of his answer, he got into an area I found fascinating. He explained that people think that black men need to seek validation from society. He said that he, as a man (grown man, adult) didn't need anyone to validate him. As in, I know who I am, I don't care what you think. 

Don't assume that anyone needs your validation. A stranger is not serving you. At the same time, look inward, know who you are. Be confident in that person. Listen to those close to you. It's not ego. Ego needs stroking. It's simply having the confidence to know who you are.

Why or Why Not?

I'm reading The Boys of Summer, the autobiographical 1971 book about covering the Brooklyn Dodgers in '52 and '53 for the now long defunct New York Herald Tribune. The book contains a lot of interesting tidbits, and maybe I'll get to some of the others, but here's one that struck me.

The author, in the course of telling a story about some sports writer or ball player (it doesn't matter) mentions a woman who has kids and weighs in on the guy getting involved with her. He says something like, "Well she would have to be really great". And yes it's 1971 and he's talking about the 50s. I am obviously not surprised or offended that men, then or now, feel that way. It was written as an objective statement of fact. As in, no man would ever want to raise another man's kids.

A while ago an old friend asked me about a mutual friend who is in a similar situation. That is, he is with a woman who has children from a previous relationship. And I was asked the question in a similar way. And knowing her and them together I felt I had to defend them. I found myself saying things like, "Oh yeah but she's great" and sort of leaving it at that. My friend was obviously implying, "Why would he want to do that?" And if I had thought it through I might've said, "Why wouldn't he?"

I'm not saying everyone should want to be a surrogate father. But even now there is this assumption (and societal acceptance) that men are so selfish and immature that no man would want to be a father to children who need one.

Here's a segue you didn't see coming. I recently saw an interview with Shaq on YouTube, and knowing that Shaq was raised by his mother and step-father, the interviewer asked about his biological father. He brushed it aside, said he had nothing to say about him, and for several minutes went on to praise the man that raised him, the man that chose to be his father, who did x, y, and z to make sure they had enough. He says that it would be disrespectful to pretend that he had any other father.

That sounds like a hero. Why wouldn't you want to be a hero?

What would I do?

People ask me what I would do; if I woke up tomorrow, you know, normal.

I tell them that I've thought about it a lot. And I don't have a definitive answer.

But I do have some thoughts.

I don't think I could spend five days a week in a cubicle. At the top of my list would be to try to get back all of the time I've missed. I really don't see how I could focus in a job without it feeling like a tremendous waste of time.

I think that would be my mantra: Do stuff. Don't waste time.

I think I would find a relatively cheap apartment or condo in Burlington because that's where I want to be. And because I don't want to be tied to a job that doesn't do anything for me just to pay the mortgage.

I'd buy a car. New, used, I don't know but I would definitely enjoy the process. The mere possibility of buying and driving a new (to me) car gets me revved up. Too much?

There are so many things that I would have to buy; everything from shoes to bikes to skis. And a kayak. I would have to buy a kayak. Hmm, hope I can afford all of this.

You know what I would enjoy as much as anything else, having a conversation. And meeting new people. And let's face it meeting women, and flirting, and dating, and well, I'll leave that there.

I guess in this scenario I wouldn't need to relearn everything I used to know. If I did, that would take a lot of time.

So I know the question was simpler, as in what would I do? for work. But I can't focus. That seems so unimportant.

Success and Satisfaction

I was listening to a podcast interview and was reminded of an idea I've had before. We are seemingly always being bombarded with Be the best and Never be satisfied and the like. And some say that anything less is the attitude of a loser, that the minute you become satisfied you stop pushing and sit back. But it's more complicated, and if you’re never satisfied then how can you be happy? 

Ok so it's Rainn Wilson on Armchair Expert talking about how for 20 years he was obsessed (he calls it an addiction) with his career. And after finding success on The Office he finally had the opportunity to be a leading man in a major movie. And it flopped. Disaster. And he took it hard. And over time, with lots of therapy, he came to realize, Not everyone is a movie star. I have a great career. 

You're not Michael Jordan, but you're in the NBA. 

I've had a similar conversation while watching golf with my dad. People will put a guy down who Hasn't won the big one or is deemed to be a disappointment in some way. I look at the same guy and say He's playing golf professionally, making gobs of money doing what he loves. 

Can we be satisfied and still successful? Do you want to spend 30 years grinding your teeth and digging in Bill Belichick style? 

Sometimes I think it's better to live in moderation, and instead seek a level of sanity.

I miss the casual nature of life. It seems like everything is such a production.