Someone to talk to

On the occasion of our 27th wedding anniversary, I salute my dear wife, lover, and friend, Gven Golly.

It was a cold, rainy day in Atlanta the week after Christmas, 1978. Our families and friends had converged from far-flung Detroit, Des Moines, Chicago, Columbus, Stockbridge, and other exotic ports. Gven's childhood minister from Jonesboro had agreed to officiate, although the site was not a church but Open City Theater on Highland Ave. in midtown. We had connections since Gven had taught yoga in the upstairs studio space, so they let us use it free.

The lights worked, but the furnace didn't. As 12:00 noon approached, the little black-box theater began filling up with guests standing around in their coats, shaking off the dampness and waiting for the heat to come on. Finally someone got the pilot to light, the heater - the kind that hangs from the ceiling - roared to life, and everyone took their places.

It was that kind of day and that kind of improvisational event. Once everyone had found a seat, the wedding party marched in to Pachelbel's Canon in D from an LP Gven adored. We stood with Rev. Mike in the center, and on cue our families formed a circle around us. At one point the phone rang, and whoever was closest answered it: no, there's no show today. There were vows, tears, joy all around, and inadequate light for photographs. I think everyone agreed it was one of a kind.

Afterward we all retired to the yoga room (is there an echo in here?) at Dr. Burt's office, where we ate organic food from Sevananda, danced to the live music of a friend of a friend, and drank champagne provided by Papa Golly. Nieces and nephews played drums and tambourines, and I vaguely recall a trumpet. If you've seen Brueghel's Peasant Feast, you get the picture, a pretty loose and casual reception of Southerners and Midwesterners on their best behavior. Miss Manners would have had a cow. But ya know what, she wasn't invited.

The big bash was actually the next night at JoJo's house, where the inner circle congregated for one of the best New Year's Eve parties in memory. We rang in 1979, and soon everyone had gone back to Detroit, Des Moines, Chicago, and Columbus. I recall the sun coming out at some point, and a big group piled in our red Ford Econoline van and walked up Stone Mountain. The rest is a blur.

Gven and I drove that red van down to the Florida Keys for a short camping honeymoon, then up to Ithaca, NY, for a long winter house-sitting a friend's cabin, cutting wood, carrying water, and tapping maple trees. We survived that and a few other tests which I will not enumerate. But it all reminds me of a corny Billy Joel song.

Don't go changing, to try and please me
You never let me down before
I don't imagine you're too familiar
And I don't see you anymore.

I wouldn't leave you in times of trouble
We never could have come this far
I took the good times, I'll take the bad times
I'll take you just the way you are.

Don't go trying some new fashion
Don't change the color of your hair
You always have my unspoken passion
Although I might not seem to care.

I don't want clever conversation
I never want to work that hard
I just want someone that I can talk to
I want you just the way you are.

I need to know that you will always be
The same old someone that I knew
What will it take till you believe in me
The way that I believe in you.

I said I love you and that's forever
And this I promise from the heart
I could not love you any better
I love you just the way you are.

The Zojourn, Day Three

If it's Thursday, this must be the British Museum medieval galleries, followed by lunch somewhere really cool, then on to the National Gallery and Theater. Tomorrow's itinerary includes the National Portrait Gallery.

The next day is the birthday of the trip's sponsor, chief guide, and art historian in charge of 20 college seniors (yikes), Dr. Fred Smith, so the group is planning a night on the town with combined New Year's Eve and birthday parties. What would happen if London ran out of Guinness?

New Year's Day, while folks on this side of the pond are watching floats and football, Helga and friends will be at the Tate Modern and the Wallace Collection. The following day they travel to Paris by train via the chunnel.

The Zojourn, Day Two

Hey, I made it.

When we landed in London, I (in order) got my luggage, smoked a cigarette, went to the information desk, called the hotel and talked to my roommate Victoria, then got on the train to Paddington Station where Fred and Don were waiting for me. They got your message and left me a note telling me that you'd called yesterday too. I think I was asleep when you called. I bought a phone card last night, so I'll try to call. If you do call the hotel, make sure to keep in mind the 5 hours ahead time difference.

We did some sight-seeing last night after everyone got a nap, and had dinner. Today we went to the British Museum and the National Gallery, then walked around a trendy little area with lots of expensive shops like Diesel, Aldo, FCUK, etc. There was drooling. Also Trafalgar Square and Leicester Square. Tomorrow we go to Westminster Abbey and back to the National Gallery I think.

I'm in an internet cafe right now and have limited time, so I'll call you guys later.

Helga

Blowin' in the Wind

After all these years, the voices I listened to at 12 or 13 resonate deeply enough to move me. JoJo bought an album called Peter, Paul and Mary in Concert at our neighborhood Sour Records store when she was visiting at Thanksgiving and left it with us because she doesn't have a turntable. When I tried to play it, the stereo kept cutting out, so you'd hear half a line then nothing, very annoying. Gven thought it was a speaker problem but couldn't explain how that would make the tuner cut out (see On Verbocentrism), which made no logical sense to me, but what do I know about audio equipment? Only enough to improvise cables from an old set of computer speakers and the speakers from a 1986 Saab named Olaf, so we could listen to CDs with the volume low. When a new set of real speakers magically appeared under our dying fraser fir, I hooked them up and the stereo worked fine.

First I played the new Dave Brubeck CD that my thoughtful daughter gave me, and what a difference it made to hear it through decent speakers with the woofers to get a warm, solid bass. Then I played a raucous Squirrel Nut Zippers CD with lots of crazy swing tunes loosely strung around a holiday theme. Finally I got around to putting on JoJo's PP&M LP, and by the second track tears were streaming down my face as I was transported back to 1964.

The songs have taken on a life of their own over the years, as they've entered pop culture and been covered by hundreds of other performers. The writer has long since become a folk hero by writing and singing hundreds of other songs that have influenced thousands of other artists. The social changes encapsulated in some of them became part of mainstream culture, as well as my personal history growing up in Middle America in midcentury. Now people look back at the civil rights and antiwar movements as quaint artifacts of something called The Sixties. It's tough getting old.

Those three familiar voices etched in vinyl weren't the first or the last to record Dylan's protest songs, and most people would argue that they're not the definitive version (JoJo would disagree); but Yarrow, Stookey and Travers were the reed-like tenor, baritone drone, and passionate alto who introduced me to those songs, that kind of music, and those changes. Since the records could be played on the radio and bought by church-going, middle-class white kids, they opened up something for people like us at just the right time. In some kind of chronosynclastic infundibulum (to steal Kurt Vonnegut's great phrase) I was born just in time to be ripe for what Peter, Paul and Mary were singing when Bob Dylan was writing epochal songs like "The Times They Are a Changin'."

According to the growth-ring theory of human development, I will always be that 12-year-old boy from the suburbs, even after that growth ring had been outgrown by many other layers of experience, just as the 18-year-old in me still gets into the Carpenters, the Association, and Iron Butterfly. What surprised me is that it's not just the songs, which I knew I liked, but the voices that first brought me the songs. I guess you had to be there.

The Zojourn, Day One

The day started calmly enough. Helga had been hard at work packing her bags, doing laundry, making a list and checking it 18 times to make sure everything was in place for her trip. Gven and I were doing what we could to help, but there wasn't much we could do because by design or by the nature of things she was more or less on her own.

We ate a light breakfast, packed the car, and were on the road by 10:30 with a full tank of gas. Weather mild, no precipitation to speak of, we reached Cleveland Hopkins International Airport around 1:00. By the time I'd parked Olive the white Honda (level 2 row A), Helga was all checked in at Continental with baggage checked and nothing more to do except go through security, convert her dollars into pounds, and proceed to gate 4D.

We had allowed ourselves a couple of hours for long lines, traffic, and changing money, better safe than sorry. While standing around, Helga ran into a couple of other girls in the Northeast Swingstate University group with their parents. Is your flight going through New York or Boston? Arriving at Heathrow or Gatwick? Okay, see you there! We took in the demographic sideshow of Cleveland culture, a more colorful ethnic mix than we are used to in whitebread Columbus.

Like doting old birds Gven and I stood behind the barrier watching the shining red hair of our tall daughter bob and weave through the security inspection gates, put everything back in her bags, and turn left out of our sight. A minute ago we were telling her it was time to go, now I had a desire to send an extra eye or an angel or a surveillance device to hover over her as she found the gate, changed her money, and boarded the plane, changed planes at Kennedy, and found her way in the world, but it doesn't work that way. We got in the car and drove home through light snow, ate lunch, and found things to do until she called from New York.

Turns out the packed little plane departed on time but was delayed en route to New York, and by the time Helga got to the correct gate at Kennedy, Virgin Atlantic 2727 for London had completed boarding, sorry. Inexperienced travellers beware, getting to the gate at 7:15 for a 7:30 flight doesn't get you on the plane. Go back to the ticketing desk and change your ticket for the next flight an hour later. Do not pass GO, give them more money, and proceed to worry about meeting the rest of the group at the appointed time in London.

At home in Methodistville, father bird is sitting by the fire with a cat on his lap reading a book about the biopsychology of depression, in particular the chapter about heritable "personality" traits (temperament) and learned "personality" traits (character). It's interesting how the neurological wiring you're born with appears to change during maturation in response to either stressors or pharmaceuticals. People born "at risk" for anxiety in all its forms increase their risk of depression, inhibition, isolation, and other problems when hit by life events such as loss or abuse. Rational person that I am, I take none of this personally. Uh-huh.

About that time Helga called from her upgraded business-class seat on the later flight to London, asking us to leave a message at the hotel informing Prof. Smith that she would arrive at Heathrow an hour late. I was reading Dr. Kramer's description of how people who inherit an irritable temperament are more "reactive" when blind-sided by stress. Bingo. Guilty as charged. And my lucky children, too. No Prozac for me, I decide to self-medicate with a second rum and tonic while mother bird calmly talks to the helpful hotel clerk at Sussex Gardens, London W2.

As of this morning, she was checked into the hotel and we assume all is well. Nothing's ever easy, and I'm still pissed at the airline for not letting her board the right plane, or at myself for not preparing her for that contingency.

Enjoy Your Symptom!

I can't take credit for the title, I just wish I'd thought of it first. It's one of Slavoj Zizek's books (1992), my first attempt at reading his work, and it is work to try to read for any kind of understanding. It's the kind of writing that you either love or hate (show of hands? I thought so), that either grabs you by the chakras or leaves you running in the opposite direction. I mean who has time for this stuff, right? (Answer: graduate students.) Even if I've read the other writers he cites, and he cites a lot of people in a lot of disciplines, I read a sentence over and over and still don't "get it" in the usual sense. So I just read along recognizing a few signposts until something arresting makes me freeze-frame a slice of text. Some samples:

In this sense, we may say that Hitchcock's Rope is an inherently Hegelian film....he gets back from the other his own message in its inverted, true form, i.e., when the true dimension of his own "letter" (teaching) reaches its proper addressee, namely himself - he is shaken and shrinks back from the consequence of his words, unprepared to recognize in them his own truth. Lacan defines "hero" as the subject who (unlike Caddell and like Oedipus, for example) fully assumes the consequences of his act, that is to say, who does not step aside when the arrow that he shot makes its full circle and flies back at him - unlike the rest of us who endeavor to realize our desire without paying the price for it... (pp. 13-14)

So I only read a few pages at a time, and only when I'm in the mood for some serious entertainment, then I have to take a break and return to the ordinary, concrete reality of a weekend at home, because my critical, discursive mind is worn out. So I look up from my book and the full moon is rising in the northeastern sky, right between the fence and the tree and the garage. The cat and the dog are both napping, and the fire is going strong. The women of the house are at a cookie exchange with other women of other houses. It's a perfect night to walk the dog, cold and bright and quiet in half-empty, school-out-on-break Methodistville.

The shift of perspective at work here can be exemplified by means of the dialectic of law and violence: first, law appears as opposed to particular acts of violence that subvert it, the subject is torn between "pathological" impulses to transgress law and between the ethical injunction to obey it; then, the ground is suddenly swept from under his feet when he experiences how the reign of law itself is founded upon violence, i.e., how the imposition of the reign of law consists in the universalization of a violence which thereby becomes "legal." ...As soon as some political force threatens too much the circulation of capital - even if it is, for example, a benign ecological protest against woodcutting - it is instantly labeled "terrorist," "irrational," etc. Perhaps, our very survival depends on our capacity to perform the above-described reversal and to locate the true source of madness in the allegedly neutral measure of "normalcy" which enables us to perceive all opposition to it as "irrational." ...on Hegel's dictum that the true source of evil is the very neutral gaze which perceives Evil all around. (pp. 82-83)

Back in autobiographical mode, I sat at the dining room table and tried to address and stamp the remainder of the holiday letters to send to family and friends, as we have every year since - I can't remember when that ritual started - probably when the kids were little and we felt the need to chronicle each year's passage. I cranked out the first twenty brief personal notes with just the mixture of levity and gravity appropriate to the occasion and the recipient, I hope, and if not, they'll know that I've finally lost it after all, if they hadn't already drawn that conclusion. The second twenty didn't flow as easily, having run out of different ways to say the same thing without quoting Mel Torme, "although it's been said many times many ways..." It helped that the same generic letter is printed on three different colors of paper, a bold visual innovation over years past.

...discourse itself is in its fundamental structure "authoritarian" .... Out of the free-floating dispersion of signifiers, a consistent field of meaning emerges through the intervention of a Master Signifier - Why? ...the symbolic order in which the subject is embedded is simultaneously "finite"...and "infinite".... Because of this inherent tension, every language contains a paradoxical element which, within its field, stands in for what eludes it.... This signifier is the Master Signifier: the "empty" signifier which totalizes ("quilts") the dispersed field... (pp. 102-103)

It was the kind of Saturday that lends itself to small tasks like sweeping the kitchen and den, bringing in firewood, cleaning and oiling boots, shoveling the walk, doing a load of laundry, staying out of the way while Gven and Helga make batch after batch of biscotti to share with the neighborhood ladies. It's their yearly ritual, and they put a lot of energy into the effort, which connects them with their mothers and grandmothers, and now to their daughters, so be it.

Brecht's "learning plays" were motivated by his encounter with the universe of Noh plays - what we encroach upon thereby is the relationship of the West with Japan qua fantasy object. That is to say, the history of the so-called cultural exchange between Europe and Japan is a long story of missed encounters.... In Europe, Japan functions as a kind of fantasy screen onto which one projects one's "repressed." The fantasy image of Japan is ramified into two main branches: the "fanatic" Japan (kamikaze, samurai, the code of honor - Japan as the ethics of unconditional obedience) and the "semiotic" Japan (from Eisenstein to Barthes: kabuki, the Japanese art of painting - Japan as an empire of signs delivered from Western logocentrism). The first fantasy is usually appropriated by the political right and the second by the Left... (p. 174)

Independently of all this, as far as I can tell from inside my own skin, I checked out Listening to Prozac from the library the other day. No, I don't take the stuff, and I'm not clinically depressed, just Scandinavian. It had been on my list for a while, based on a quote I saw somewhere, and it felt like the right time to get into it. By the way, today's Merriam-Webster Word of the day is seasonal affective disorder \SEE-zun-ul-a-FEK-tiv-dis-OR-der\ noun: "depression that tends to recur as the days grow shorter during the fall and winter." No kidding, you can't plan these things. So I'm a chapter into it, and the writing is slow and monotonous, you know, best-selling expert writes patronizingly for the general audience, but he has a point to make about the obvious appeal of miracle drugs that appear to make people happy, and I'm receptive to the analogies with cosmetic surgery in the kind of personality change he claims antidepressants effect.

And then, while writing this, something happened. I got an email from a friend from graduate school, one of the two or three closest in a group of us who helped each other survive, aided by copious amounts of coffee, Buckeye Donuts, beer, and half-baked ideas. He and his wife, also a grad student in the same department at the time, have split up. I just mailed my holiday letter to their old address; I hope it gets forwarded to one of them. I will soon receive his card in the mail, and then I'll know more of the background. Now I am depressed.

The party of the first part

I wanted to send some sort of holiday greeting to my friends, but it is so difficult in today's world to know exactly what to say without offending someone. So I met with my attorney yesterday, and on his or her advice I wish to make the following plagiarized* statement:

Please accept with no obligation, either implied or implicit, my best wishes for a culturally respectful, environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low-stress, nonaddictive, age-inclusive, and gender-neutral celebration of the winter holiday of your choice, observed and/or practiced within the most enjoyable customs or traditions, religious persuasion, or secular practices of your choice with due respect for the religious, ethnic, social, or secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, including their choice not to observe or practice said religious, ethnic, social, or secular persuasions and/or traditions at all.

I also, being of sound mind and of my own will and accord, wish you a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally though not universally accepted calendar year 2006, but not without due respect for and acknowledgement of the equally valid calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make America great - not to imply that America is necessarily greater than any other country or is the only geographical or national entity called 'America' in the western hemisphere - without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, or sexual preference of the wishee.

By accepting this greeting, please be advised that you are accepting the following terms: This greeting is subject to clarification, modification, or withdrawal at any time without prior notice; is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting; implies no promise by the wisher or wisher's heirs or agents to actually implement any of said wishes for her/himself or others; is void where prohibited by law; and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual and customary application of comparable good tidings for a period of one year from date of receipt or until the issuance of a
subsequent holiday or seasonal greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.

Disclaimer: no trees or other plant organisms were harmed in the sending of this message, however, a significant number of electrons were slightly inconvenienced.

*origin unknown; I take full responsibility for editorial alterations and any factual or other inaccuracies. Thanks to JoJo.

The night before solstice

(with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

Twas the night before solstice and all through Om Shanty
The dog and the cat and the humans were ranting,
There's too much to do, between cooking and cleaning,
Shopping and decorating, primping and preaning.

The parking lot lights on the snow are reflected,
Reminding me of the shoveling I've neglected.
With a fire in the hearth and a drink on the table,
I'll survive til tomorrow, and that's all I'm able

To do in this season of high expectation,
Let's pack up the car and take a vacation
From cookies and cards and bad advertising
That wears on my soul, so it isn't surprising

That folks get short-tempered, angry and stressed
As the days become shorter and dark and depressed.
In the outward display we all get obsessed,
With wrapping and lighting and being well-dressed.

Then something happens right out of the blues,
Reminding me that I've got nothing to lose
But my worldly attachment to what's on my list,
To the things that I want and the things that I've missed.

And then for a minute or twenty it's clear
That what everyone wants is to be with those dear
To them, parents with kids and kids with each other,
Uncles and aunts with their sisters and brothers.

Some of us have to make do with a letter,
A card, or a package we wish was a better
Representation of the whole family history
That grows year by year, and there is the mystery

That makes it imperative, regardless of weather,
To make those connections that keep us together.
So suck it up, folks, it won't be much longer,
And what doesn't kill you will just make you stronger.

On panarchy

n. 1. What there would be if everybody had power; what there is when everybody has power. 2. A system in which power is held broadly by all members of society, in contrast to monarchy (power held by one), oligarchy (power held by few), or anarchy (power held by none). Compare monotheism (one deity), polytheism (many deities), pantheism (a universe full of deities).

Where was I the other day when these ideas came bouncing into my brain? Was I walking down the trail toward Alumni Creek Lake, catching the first glimpse of the choppy water cut by wind and finding its own level? Or was I doing a taiji form in the cavernous space at the Yoga Factory listening to Bobby McFerrin's "Medicine Man"? Maybe it was while reading Zizek's postmodern critiques of pop culture, or was it while filling in text boxes in the performance management process, where goals morph into competencies, which morph into developmental plans, and words turn back on themselves in self-reflexive speech acts? Maybe not. It might have been on the way home from my men's group meeting where we talked about Christmas. Or it could have come out of the drum circle last week when a dozen people sat and banged away for an hour and cooked, then walked out to their cars. I don't remember exactly, maybe it was the combination of all those things - and others.

There's something very appealing about panarchy and its theological cousin pantheism. But are we talking metaphysically, about what is the nature of the universe, or are we talking ideologically/morally about what the social situation should be - are we talking descriptively or prescriptively? And are those really different? Isn't the metaphysical description just a disguised ideological prescription? Aarrgh. I didn't set out to write a paper, but my training is taking over.

When in doubt, quote others. Rev. Susan was talking about the role of imagination in making a holiday happen. One of her examples was the three "wise men" (kings, shamans, sorcerers, traders in metals, incense, and aromatic gum resin) choosing to go in the direction of the extraordinary star they saw, not knowing why or toward what they were traveling. There was much more to her story, and of course I've forgotten most of it. Since the magi (pl. of magus, n. 1. member of priestly class of ancient Medes and Persians, 2. magician) walked the walk, they didn't necessarily have to "believe" or even have a theory, just be open to possibilities and go looking. But I digress.

The other example that stuck with me was the pagan practice of lighting bonfires on the longest, darkest night of the year to encourage the sun to come back. Maybe it's my nordic blood, but I can relate to that. One of the drum circle regulars later told me that she's bringing candles a week from Tuesday to add a bit of light along with our drumming in the solstice.

Where am I going with this? I'm not sure, and the more I write, the more my left brain takes over and I lose the thread that my right brain had found. Here's a clue from the wordy UUs: "The origin of the word 'worship' is in the Old English weorthscippen, meaning to ascribe worth to something... (or) give form or shape to that which we have already found to be of worth."

Panarchists of the world, unite!

Isabel in mourning

Now that she doesn't have her brother, playmate, soul-mate, companion, nemesis, foil, bathing partner, sidekick to push around anymore, the female cat of the house is having to make some adjustments. She takes naps by herself now. She eats alone. She requires more petting, stroking, scratching, rubbing, especially around the ears. That place on the side of her face, just below the ear, that she likes to rub against things is especially desirous of contact, friction, resistance. She is more vocal than ever, and she expresses her irritation directly to the nearest human.

Is her color changing, or is it my imagination? She still has the charcoal-orange-gray (tortoiseshell?) mixture that has always made her long hair so elegant, but I'm seeing more reddish orange up on her back than before. Maybe it's the change of seasons, like the bleached effect of summer is fading to a darker hue as her winter coat comes in. Or the orange tabby spirit of Gus has infiltrated Isabel's body and altered her coloring.

Isabel always did like to sit in my lap, but now she does it more. There's less foreplay involved, the way she used to circle around, make a few passes, and wave her tail while making up her mind before finally settling in. Now she hops right up on the chair and reclines across my thighs. She will do this with other people, but I seem to be her chosen human, and for that favor I am grateful.

She also vents in my direction. She comes into the room, faces me, and lets fly with a string of angry meows. Of course I can't discern the cat-content of her cat-statement, but I know a complaint when I hear one, and this is one displeased feline.

But it's better than the plaintive roaming from room to room. Sometimes Izzy walks around the house from bedroom to office to dining room to kitchen to den, meowing over and over without stopping. It's a different sound from the demand for food, water, or strokes. This morning she was roaming around the house calling out like that, so I followed her up the stairs to Helga's room. Isabel jumped up on the bed, so I sat down beside her, and for maybe half an hour she rubbed up against my hand, and my hand reciprocated, mostly around the ears and the top of her head, but also down her neck and shoulders.

Helga's room was the place where Gus hung out the most, so it's not a huge deduction to say that Izzy wasn't getting the contact she's used to, so she went there to get it. She's a smart cat, but she's having a hard time.

Sven’s Excellent Performance Management Adventure

Further evidence that, like, the process rocks.

If the following (heavily edited) excerpts do not show the kind of helpful commonsense wisdom that deserves to be enshrined as holy writ, I don't know what does. (Insert snarky epithet here.) I see Little Blue Books of "sayings" selling like hotcakes in the chain bookstores of America. I see group meetings in church basements across this great land, as people seek to deepen their understanding of the process and help each other save draft, send forward, and submit for approval.

In this age of dominance through fairness - or was it fairness through dominance, I can never remember - the language of success and achievement IS the language of openness, benevolence, and inclusiveness.

To wit, a good, i.e. successful, person:

Demonstrates honesty...Shares thoughts...Treats people with dignity...Listens to others...delivers important information and checks for understanding...Uses vocabulary appropriate to the audience...Uses appropriate influence strategies...Actively seeks, clarifies and listens to ideas from others...Presents facts, ideas, and concepts clearly and effectively...supports organizational decisions and values...fosters collaboration...actively seeks learning experiences...Maintains perspective and remains calm in stressful situations...assumes accountability for successes.

In short, be excellent to each other!
I like it. If it had a beat, I would dance to it.

Lennon

Mother, you had me, but I never had you.
I wanted you, but you didn't want me.
So I just want to tell you good bye - good bye.

Father, you left me, but I never left you.
I needed you, but you didn't need me.
So I just want to tell you good bye - good bye.

Children, don't you do what I have done.
I couldn't walk, but I tried to run.
So I just want to tell you good bye - good bye.

(Words, to the best of my recollection, from Plastic Ono Band, c. 1970. I used to listen to this record A LOT.)

Winter Storm Warning

Hear those beautiful words. Winter - cold air hitting skin, quickening steps, necessitating wool socks, hat and gloves, a fire in the hearth. Storm - snow tumbling down from the sky in thick flakes to cover everything and muffle all sound. Warning - anticipating something big and ominous that will bring a change to the hum-drum routine, maybe even a snow day, so pay attention and get ready.

Jim, the local public radio news guy, uttered that lovely phrase this morning, along with meaningful numbers like "high in the mid-twenties" and "low around ten." The snow is already flying, barely enough to cover the ground but promising more, the way the light wind and heavy clouds hint at "heavy accumulation." Woo-hoo!!

As long as there's coffee in the can and food in the pantry, wood in the shed and gas in the car, hey, bring it on. Wax the skis, drag out the sled, put on longjohns, and hit the trail.

Winter, how do I love thee?

HR and religious experience

To paraphrase John Lennon (Plastic Ono Band, c. 1971):

I don't believe in magic,
I don't believe in Tarot,
I don't believe in I Ching,
I don't believe in mantra,
I don't believe in tantra,
I don't believe in Jesus,
I don't believe in Buddha,
I don't believe in Gita,
I don't believe in Elvis,
I don't believe in Zimmerman,
I don't believe in Beatles,
I just believe in PMP,
the Performance Management Process,
and that's reality.
The dream is over, what can I say?
I was the dreamweaver, but now I'm reborn.
I was the walrus, but now I'm Sven.
And so, dear friends, you'll just have to carry on.
The dream is over.

The wisdom of the performance-driven culture has been revealed to me, and I now understand that everything I really need to know can be found in my year-end review of goals, competencies, and developmental activities. Hallelujah!

Everything I need to know, that is, about myself and my personal and professional abilities, opportunities for personal and professional growth, and potential as a human resource. Everything I need to know about the corporate work group of which I am an integral part, in which we all have a mission and a purpose within the larger mission and purpose of the company in this momentous time and place. Can I get a witness.

There are universal themes contained within that text, brothers and sisters of the word and icon, if we only look beneath the jargon-laden surface to the larger and more subtle guidance well-hidden in the language of business. What I'm suggesting is no less than treating PMP as no less than religious text, dear friends.

For reasons of confidentiality and self-preservation, I cannot disclose here what those words, themes, and guiding thoughts are, but I'm here to testify that they are there if you look hard enough.

The reason for the seizin'

I'm no sociologist. And while I'm at it, I'm no theologian, economist, political scientist, event-planner, or philosopher-king, and, as people close to me are eager to point out, I'm no historian. But I am capable of observing the social phenomena around me, of which I am, for better or worse, a part. So I'll just lay it out there.

It appears to my untrained eye that this crazy, sacred, hectic, holy, anxious, nostalgic, stressful, special time of year is all about consuming. Consuming more and better goods and services than last year, more than Mom, Dad, Patty and all the folks back home, more than we did when we were kids, and more than the Joneses. But tastefully, with style and class.

I hasten to add that I too experience these symptoms. I too want the best available dead pine tree drying out in the living room, the best available Scandinavian foods (imported from Minneapolis) on the dining room table, colorful and pretty packages under the tree, cool arty cards in the mail to family and friends, a few nice things for Gven, Helga, and Jessi. I'm a participant, if a somewhat ambivalent and nostalgic one.

For many people this midwinter nightmare is a religious holiday that they actually celebrate with a community of the faithful. What, maybe 30 percent? I do that too. Having been raised in that way, it would feel lacking somehow not to go to church and feel the warm glow of the assembled congregation, sing the carols, light the candles.

The other 70 percent (plus most of the above 30) are worshipping at the mall or their favorite catalog or online retail site, practicing the great American secular religion of commerce. NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT. Think of the impact on the economy if Walmart didn't have a record-breaking gross this year. It's the neighborly thing to do, supporting the multinational corporation that employs the people who buy what you and I produce, in this best of all possible interconnected webs. Just think how bad it would be if Reagan hadn't vanquished the evil empire of dialectical materialism.

If I were bold enough to ask the manic shoppers what it's all about, most would say that "It's for the kids." And they'd say it with a straight face.

Before I bust an artery in my annual rage over the holiest of holy days, I will submit for your consideration the following simile: Christmas is like a drug that everybody takes and buys lots of worthless but shiny stuff, but it's okay because you were high on Christmas.

Rumi and the Flute

The poet Rumi in the Mathnawi, I'm told, talks about music that comes from the pain of separation. The body of the flute, for example, is cut from a reed that grows from the ground but reaches for the sky, then has holes burned into it that allow it to make a sound. Seven sound-holes represent the eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth. Instrument as body, body as instrument.

The choir director Marlene talked on Sunday morning about how much she loves the flute. Her flute teacher at Luther University is very ill and losing his memory. She described their student-teacher relationship back in high school when she had the kind of personal issues that kids in high school have. They have stayed in touch over the years, and now there is a sad new chapter with his declining health. This experience is burning holes in her that she hopes will open up new ways of seeing herself and making music.

She brought out some of the flutes in her collection to show the kids in church some of the materials used by different cultures to make flutes. There was a Native American flute (wood), a Japanese shakuhachi (bamboo), a fife (silver), an Indian flute (bamboo), and a recorder (plastic). Each has a distinctive sound, meaning, and function for the people who play it.

The mystic Hildegard of Bingen wrote the words to Hymn #27, "I Am That Great and Fiery Force," which closed the service. I turned to my friend Dick standing next to me and said, "That was quite amazing." He said, "Remarkable!" and we went our separate ways. I told Marlene her sermon was absolutely beautiful, then I went outside and took a walk at Alumni Creek while that simple tune of Hymn 27 repeated itself over and over in my head. I can't remember it now, but each verse had four lines, and it reminded me of the blues.

The daughter Helga placed the flat stone inscribed with the name of her cat on the little mounded spot in the back corner of the back yard on Saturday. Then she had a rough moment as it all came down to her. She has had Gus for two-thirds of her life, and now that chapter is over.

That day her aunt JoJo and cousin Bubba went back to Hotlanta after a delightful Thanksgiving visit with us in Central Swingstate. The next day, I drove Helga and her friend SaRea back to Cuyahogaville for their last two weeks of fall semester. They've done this trip many times now, so it's a familiar drill. Helga had a lot of work to do, so I didn't stick around (see Randomness Rules).

Now I'm struggling to tie together all those seemingly related fragments, armed with the detachment of looking back four days later. It's not a real strong common thread: a bunch of sweet moments pass, leaving a hard memory. This isn't meant to be a treatise, just an attempt at closure. Maybe I should sing it or drum it or play it, instead of trying to write it (see On verbocentrism), because Rumi I'm not. Wanted: a different instrument.