Winter Solstice

I used to do this quite often… wake up before the sun, grab a cup of coffee and open an MS Word document. Before doing anything else, I would contemplate life, think about where I’ve been, where I am, where I’m going and what it all means. I was never deluded that I might somehow find the answers, but these early morning introspections were part and process in the art of discovery. They are scattered throughout my blog, The 25 Year Plan, a project now entering its 12^th year. Those blog posts, for a variety of reasons, have waned in recent years, but that does not mean there is nothing new to say, nothing to new learn, nothing new left to discover. Indeed, what I don’t know is orders of magnitude greater than what I do.

Today is the winter solstice, the first day of winter and the shortest day of the year. It is a turning point, an appropriate time to place a book mark and make some notes. The year, 2016, is about to come to a close. The turn of the millennium was almost 17 years ago. I turned 17 in 1979 - the year 2000 (never mind 2017) - was a veritable lifetime away. And yet here we are, all those years later. Earth time is a funny thing; when put on a human scale, it is both very long and exceedingly short and for many icons this past year - too short. That same year, 2000, my life took a drastic, painful, dramatic, interesting, profound, (insert-your-own-adjective-here) turn. Since then, and since 2005 especially, my ability and willingness to document that progression has culminated in this - right here, right now. The year 2000 damned near killed me - that it didn’t is worth thinking (and writing) about.

On December 18^th, 2005, I wrote the first post of almost 600 to date in The 25 Year Plan. But that is not all of the writing I have done and it is not the only place my writing has been published. However, unless one was a reader of certain local newspapers, involved in certain (and relatively small) academic circles, or has been aware of this blog, it is unlikely my name would ring any sort of literary bell. That sort of notoriety has never been what I am after. If it develops as a result of this ongoing process and because others find what I say beneficial, enlightening, or in some other way worthwhile, so be it. But fame and fortune have never been on my agenda. Indeed, from what I have observed in more than 54 years on the planet, both can be fatal.

Since recovering from a near-death wreck in October of 2000, much has changed - in the world, of course, and equally obviously, I have too (17 years represents a significant percentage of any human’s life) - but the nature of that change, probably catalyzed by that wreck, is paradigmatic. It did not happen overnight. I did not wake up from a five-week induced coma sometime in November of 2000 thinking, “Fuck! That was close. I need to change my whole life and what it’s all about. I am going to do that.” It took a little more monumental toe-stubbing before, in August of 2004, I fundamentally changed my perspective.

To go through all of the ins and outs of what that involved is a book, not a blog-length post. However, briefly: Going back to school in the fall of 2003 had a lot to do with it. Getting clean from alcohol and drugs in March of 2003 had a lot to do with it. Learning to live that way through a residential treatment program for six months in 2003 had a lot to do with it. Going to jail for not days, not weeks, but months (not years) both before and (as a result of not staying clean) after getting clean had a lot to do with it. Too many people to name - family, friends, professors, doctors and other professionals - all had a lot to do with it. And the final two jail stints in August and September of 2004 made it crystal clear that I had a stark choice to make. That I made the one I did cannot be accounted for by a single factor.

I have been clean for a little more than 12 years now. In that relatively short period of time, interspersed with navigating instances of significant failure, I managed to accomplish some amazing things - amazing to me, that is. These are things that were both what I believed to be beyond my reach as well as things I could never have dreamed for. The bottom line is part of what I discovered 11 years ago when I gave this blog the subtitle, Perspectives, Purpose and Opinion. It is purpose. I’ve written about its elusiveness, its vagueness, its imprecision, but also that it is. It is real. What is that purpose? I haven’t a fucking clue. Is there one? Absolutely. And the truth is probably more than that. I am here to contribute in some indefinable way - not just professionally, but also personally, emotionally, spiritually, civically, however and whenever possible. My job - our job - is to leave the planet a better place. To that end, I still have work to do.

Peace.

Whose President?

One of my favorite lines from the film version of The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring comes towards the end when Captain Boromir, with his last breath, accepts Aragorn as the heir to the throne of Gondor and, as such, pledges allegiance to his “king.” Aragorn would be, of course, a good king, a literary manifestation of Plato’s “philosopher king” who would, ultimately, rule over utopia. Indeed, once the army of Sauron was defeated, Aragorn returned to white city of Minas Tirith to assume his lordship over the kingdom. Middle Earth entered the Age of Men; peace, good fortune and good will followed. All was well. King Aragorn was wise and strong and benevolent – he did not need to demand allegiance. It was freely given.

Of course, so long as good, benevolent philosopher kings are plentiful, there would be no need to overthrow such a regime. Unfortunately, although absolute power does not corrupt absolutely right away, ultimately it will, absolutely. A long-term or permanent succession of benevolent totalitarian leaders is never a safe bet. Absolute power corrupts (eventually) absolutely. That is why the founders of these United States of America put together such wonderfully enduring representative republic. We, the people, are in charge and sooner or later, when power begins its march towards absolute corruption, our founders gave us the ultimate weapon – our Constitution.

When a new president is sworn in, he (or, someday, she) swears to defend and protect the Constitution. He or she, essentially, swears loyalty to us through the document that puts the power in our hands. We never swear any allegiance to the president. Ever. We do swear “allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands…” But that is far different than Boromir’s acceptance of Aragorn as his king. In terms of our constitutional democratic republic, Boromir would be accepting the US as his country and through that acceptance, it’s laws and power structures. It might seem subtle, but the difference is important.

Donald Trump is the President of the United States of America. I did not vote for him. I believe that he is the least qualified president that “we, the people” have ever sent to the White House. But what I believe is not important – we, through constitutional authority, have decided. With a significant popular loss and a thin, but decisive, Electoral College win, Trump’s election is hardly a “mandate.” In some respects, however, it is. The Constitution allowed those who hold the real power in this country to give Washington DC and politics as usual a great big orange middle finger. We, the people, have spoken.

But what about all those who cannot fathom a Trump presidency? I get it. In many respects, I’m right there with you. But… for those who are claiming “He’s not my president,” I have some perspective. First, this is not new; many, many never accepted President Obama as their president either. Maybe you feel your reasons are more legitimate? I’m not going there. But there is more. No president has ever been “my president.” I don’t serve any president – they serve me. All presidents have been President of the United States of America. All have served to defend and protect the Constitution. In other words, they have pledged allegiance to us. They are serving us. None of them are or ever will be “my president” the way Aragorn is Boromir’s king.

In Gondor, King Aragorn is the law of the land and so long as he lives and remains uncorrupted by absolute power, I guess that works for everyone. In this country, our founders decided the best bet was to just keep the power to ourselves – we, the people. Trump is, in fact, the President of the United States, but he, like every other president, works for me. He is not “my president,” he is only president of my country. And he is only that because we say so, even if I didn’t. It’s been working for a good long while now, I’m not ready to try anarchy just yet.

Peace

Odds

Yesterday I had what could be described as a "close call" while riding my motorcycle. It didn't really feel that way then, and it's only in retrospect that it feels that way - a little - now. It's not the first close call I've had, and it's not even the closest. Indeed, my closest call wasn't even on a motorcycle and it wasn't close; it was a direct hit. But these potential life-altering or life-ending instances are both uncommon and, at the same time, frequent enough that it makes me wonder sometimes how anyone ever manages to survive more than a few years. While it is true that the ladder that blew off the trailer in front of me could have taken me down at freeway speed, it seems that it is more likely that it would not. And, of course, that's what happened.

The whole ordeal lasted way less than a minute. It felt and still feels like it was much longer. It feels like time slowed way down and that I had ample time to make decisions and adjustments, and I did have to make some decisions and adjustments. Panic very well could have killed me. We hear about "freak" accidents all the time, usually only when someone dies due to them. But how many occur in which the end result is nothing more than a ladder sliding along the freeway and off onto the shoulder? A freak accident where the greatest injuries are a few scuff marks on an aluminum ladder is not news, but those results are far more common.

The long short of it is simple enough. If I choose to allow the possibility (remote or not so remote) of something happening, if I choose to live my life in fear, then I would never leave my house. There are things that can happen no matter how careful I am, no matter how much caution and precaution I exercise. At the same time, even though I was totally innocent yesterday (and a few years ago when I hit a deer on my last bike, same thing and, luckily, same result), there are things I can do to reduce (but never eliminate) the odds of that kind of thing happening again. I try not to ride in deer country at dusk. I will, as much as possible, no longer be as close to any vehicle with equipment that could escape. However, those little things probably will not save my life - freak accidents are freak because they are unusual and defy prediction. Staying calm in the face of these things is far more important.

Planets

On Thursday, June 23^rd, I loaded up my 2014 Harley-Davidson Street Glide Special for a trip that, ultimately, had no destination. The “excuse” for the ride was to attend an old friend’s wedding in Southern California last Saturday, but I didn’t need to be gone a week or log the miles I did to do that. The easiest and, probably, most cost-effective way to meet that end would have been to fly down, spend the night and fly back to Sacramento. It should come as no surprise that “easy” and “cost-effective,” while both noble ends in and of themselves, are not necessarily the stuff of legend. I decided to take the long way around. I decided to take my time. I decided to do something many dream about, but comparatively few ever actually do.  And although my six-state, 3,100 plus mile trek was not record-setting by any means, it is also true that these sorts of things are not competitive. My “opponent” is me, Mother Nature and/or other variables. There is no winning, there is only doing.

Briefly, my ride went from Sacramento south to Pacheco Pass and over to Monterey where I picked up the Pacific Coast Highway and rode it down to Santa Barbara where I spent the night. PCH is one of “those” roads - epic in every respect. This time was no different. Friday morning, I met up with a friend (also no stranger to these sorts of adventures) who served as my local tour guide. She took me through not one, not two, but three different local canyons, including Malibu Canyon and culminating with Topanga Canyon. In Chatsworth, we parted ways. This would be the only day I rode with someone else. For a ride that consisted of very little planning, meeting up and riding together that Friday was one of the few planned events. Saturday was the wedding (different than any other wedding I’ve ever attended or been in, but that’s a different story for a different time) and Sunday I headed down to Anaheim to see my eldest son, daughter-in-law and grandsons. After dinner, I left Anaheim for Blythe, CA. I wanted to ride later in the day because that part of the desert can be unbearably hot this time of year. When I arrived in Blythe well after dark, the temperature was still near 100 degrees. I left early in the morning for Tucson, AZ (again, to avoid the heat) and stayed with a friend in Tucson Monday night.

So far, except for the PCH and the canyons near Malibu, the ride would have to be classified as utilitarian. Good, but nothing to get too excited about. That was about to change. Tuesday I rode north through Arizona, into New Mexico and ended up in Durango, CO. From Anaheim on, this was all new motorcycle territory for me, though I have driven many of those roads in the past. There were some notable exceptions like the Salt River Canyon in Arizona. It was magnificent - even more so on a bike. From Gallup, New Mexico all the way back to Williams, AZ, it was all new for me. From Durango I went north on the Million Dollar Highway to Ouray, CO where I picked up the San Juan Skyway to Placerville and Cortez, CO. Then I went south and west to the Four Corners, the Grand Canyon and into Williams for the night. From Williams I rode through Las Vegas and through the eastern Nevada desert before coming west around Lake Tahoe and home. The last day was about getting home and doing a little “endurance” riding - it could be described as utilitarian, too, but it was more a battle against my own psyche. The last day came in at just more than 740 miles, most if it through the desert.

The prior two paragraphs are only there to very briefly describe where the ride went. It doesn’t even begin to explain what it was. Those two paragraphs were, to be perfectly frank, a chore to write. It doesn’t say what I saw, what I experienced, the elements I faced and both the negative and positive aspects of the solitude involved. Some of that will be told as I continue, but this ride, as much as it is always about the machine and riding it, isn’t even about the ride itself. This was about escape. Escape from what? More like “from whom?” I was escaping from myself and a cycle of negativity that was eating me alive. Indeed, this ride became what it was… this ride became for that very reason. Let me see if I can put that into words.

I mentioned how many would love to do something like what I just did, but few actually have. The ones who don’t are not just day-dreaming out loud, they are not just blowing smoke; I firmly believe they are absolutely sincere and their intention is to do just that. It doesn’t have to be a motorcycle ride (solo or otherwise) it could be any kind of cross-country trek - a major hike, a bicycle ride, sailboat voyage or any number of things that involves some kind of physical long-distance journey. When I was filling up my bike in Tonopah, NV, a gentleman said to me, “someday…” I said, “Don’t wait too long, someday might never come.” He understood. For a split-second I saw in his eyes a determination that probably surprised even him. It is not uncommon when stopping for gas, food, water or for the night to see others see me with a form of envy that is not born of maliciousness. They don’t “want” my bike, they want to experience the world in a certain way and perhaps the most quintessential way is on a Harley. The metaphor, “steel horse,” could not be more appropriate.

It takes a lot of factors coming together to make something like this happen. As much as people can envision themselves heading out on the open road (or open whatever), more than just a couple of planets have to align. I own a motorcycle and I have for many years; I know what is involved in terms of physical, psychic and financial determination. Yet, this is just the third time I’ve taken such an adventure and the first time I’ve done it solo. I remember very clearly the first time six years ago. I rode with a friend to Butte, MT on an 11-day odyssey. It wasn’t going to be just the two of us - a larger group of friends all started to plan the ride months earlier, but as the date grew closer everyone else dropped out. I came close to dropping out myself. I kept thinking about how far it was, all the things that could go wrong, who would mind things at home - planets, all of them, that I was pushing out of alignment. At one point I realized that I was in the process of sabotaging my own “someday.” If I did not go then, I never would have.

More people have the tangible resources than they do the intangibles. Imagining oneself out on the open highway or being taken in by a canopy of trees lining the road or feeling the spray of the ocean while riding along the coast is the easy part. Those imaginational renderings never include the sweating butt, the twinge in the shoulder blade, the cramps in the hands or the miles of abject nothingness riding through the desert or across the salt flats. All of these terrain and geographic features are magical, but that magic can fade after 100, 200 or 500 miles. And if not a solo ride (if the vehicle of choice is a motorcycle, all rides are solo to some extent), what about the committee decisions? Where to eat, stop, sleep, and when to pee? These things are not what comes to mind when envisioning the romantic “open road.” Committees of one are the easiest, every decision is necessarily unanimous. But the solitude does have its downside, and many do not factor that into the romantic vision, either. This last trip was very intentionally a solo ride. I did not “invite” anyone, I didn’t want anyone else to go.

All of the friends who wanted to go both six years ago and last year all have their own motorcycles. All are part of the “biker” lifestyle (not to be confused with what is portrayed on TV - that is not what we are about). They all had planets that fell out of alignment. For some it was the time. For others it was the money. For still others it was family or work obligations. It doesn’t take much to throw a monkey wrench into something like this. And while I cannot say for sure, it is also possible that some were subconsciously pushing planets out of alignment. It is a much larger commitment than just a vacation. When envisioning how great it would be, those little details need not be entertained. When the departure date is looming, however, those details can become all-consuming.

Some say I am “living the dream.” This means different things to different people. It means different things to me depending on where my head is at the time. A little more than a week ago, my head could not see any dream. It was wrapped much too tightly around a notion that has haunted me my entire life - justice. When I was a kid, it was much more localized as fairness. As I grew and became more aware of the world I live in, I was able to see justice or, more often injustice, in people and places that were not directly tied to me. Bad things were happening to good or innocent people so much that I grew numb to it. It was a form of accepting that the world is not fair. Okay. Got it. But when good things happen to bad people (defined in numerous ways, it doesn’t have to be serial-killer bad)? That is a much more difficult concept to accept, for whatever reason. But it comes and goes. And when it touches my life in a very direct way it has a very direct effect on my serenity. In those times, I am living no dreams. In those times I am again five years-old and it is once again “no fair!”

It is exceeding rare that I am not in a profound state of gratitude for all I have. Whether it is by grace, by work or by luck, I am almost always in amazement at the life I get to live. In some respects, one could say I paid the price, but the truth is that I am one lucky SOB, too. The problem is that where I have worked hard to get much of what I have (luck and grace, while not a direct function of effort, are still affected by it), others seem to get what they want by doing little to nothing. I know, life is not fair, but when it hits very close to home, it devalues not the stuff I have, but what it took to get there. In other words, it diminishes the intangibles. And that - that - is on me. I should not and, in fact, do not need anyone to place any value on the things I know are good and true about me. The bottom line is simple enough, no none else can make me happy and, much more importantly, no one else can make me unhappy. And life isn’t fair. It’s not supposed to be.

Eight days, 3,130-ish miles though the desert, the heat, the rain, the dust and the mountains riding some of the most magnificent roads this nation has to offer gave me that. A sense of peace. I encourage anyone who intends to make a similar journey to stop intending and do it. Push the planets back into alignment and go. It is romantic, just not like you think it is.

An Ounce of Prevention

From my earliest memories up to my mid-30s, I never had any serious medical issues. Sure, I’ve been stitched up a time or two, broken an arm and I have been pretty sick a handful of times, but nothing really all that serious. Even when I had my wisdom teeth pulled at 18 years-old, I was only mildly sedated and given a local anesthetic. I remember it clearly; I was awake the whole time. It wasn’t until much later in life that I was in a position to need fluids intravenously (anaphylactic shock due to an allergic reaction to over-the-counter medication). I was in, fixed up and out within a couple of hours at a clinic. But that’s the extent of it. Until I was 37, I had never spent the night in a hospital as a patient.

All of that radically changed on October 17^th, 2000. I was in a terrible automobile accident that should have killed me. It didn’t, but the hospital and all that goes with it became a real, constant and integral part of my life. I’ve written extensively about that wreck in my blog (this link has links to most of those posts), this is not about that, exactly. But it is about medical procedures and some of the nuances that never meant all that much to me prior. Among them is a simple revelation that only those who have been in the hospital for a sufficiently long period of time get it. We are the people who understand what the hospital means more intimately than anyone else. It’s not the doctors, the nurses, the x-ray and MRI techs, it’s not the family members who come to visit. Everyone else - everyone else - gets to go home. We don’t. We are there 24/7 and there is nothing we can say about it. We, who have been hospitalized for long periods of time, know it in a way no one else can. And it sucks.

I was there for about three months, five weeks of which I was in a “medically induced coma.” That’s pretty much a euphemism for being sedated into oblivion. I spent those five weeks in la-la land, somewhere between totally unconscious and semiconscious. They were the easiest weeks. After they brought me out of it, I was still put back under general anesthesia regularly for various procedures related to my recovery. When I was finally released, my hospital days were not over yet - I had to go back for procedures that took anywhere from a day to more than a week. Thankfully it’s been about 15 years since I’ve been hospitalized or needed a general anesthetic.

When I was conscious and I knew I would be “going under,” I found the experience not at all unpleasant. The unpleasantness either preceded whatever procedure I was going to have or came about a day later in the form of pain (or both), but I came to enjoy the “going under” and waking up part. Often, when I woke up, there would be new stuff about me (external fixator removal and the reversal of my colostomy were two procedures that made huge improvements). It was kind of exciting and not at all unpleasant. If nothing else, it was a break in the routine. Of course, by this time I knew hospitals and I knew what to expect.

In two days I will be “put under” for the first time in 15 or so years. It’s nothing serious, in fact, it’s a good thing. I am getting a colonoscopy because at my (ahem) advanced age, it’s considered a very good idea. It is not, however, the first time I have been “scoped.” Because my injuries in that accident resulted in a temporary colostomy, I was scoped fairly often. The procedure was never a problem and going under was, as I mentioned, something I had grown to enjoy. The prep for it is similar to what I have to do for this one. I’ll be drinking a ton of “purging fluid” and dealing with the, um, fallout. For those who have been there, you know, but imagine if you will what that looks like when the “exit” has been moved to your abdomen. No fun, but then they put me under and I was in my happy place again.

It’s been a long time. It was more than 37 years before my first hospital stay and it’s been around 15 since my last. I don’t know what I liked so much about going under and I am not exactly looking forward to it. The procedure itself? It is what it is. It’s an ounce of prevention. I can say with conviction that, although I know hospitals like only those who have lived in one do, and while I am not going into anything remotely unknown, I can also say, unequivocally, I do not like hospitals. That year or so of spending almost as much time in one as out of one was enough. To this day it takes more and more effort just to go inside one, let alone admit myself. I guess to those who have never been in one for a long time, this sounds like no big deal. And the reality is that it’s not. But it kind of is, too.

Soap Bubbles

I left Baton Rouge a year ago today. Although it would be a couple of weeks before I was able to get back into my home in Fair Oaks, it was the end of my temporary stay in a city that became my home. In fact, it became my fifth home in the short list of geographic regions that I ever spent enough time in to call home. But home is more than just geography, it is more than just where a job is, it is more than just where a school is. It turns out the old cliché is right on the money - home is where the heart is. For that to happen, for me, it means not only that I have to live in a given place, I also have to establish long-term emotive connections with people who also live there. In have done that in exactly five places, four in California and one in Louisiana.

Now about one year back in my Sacramento area home again, I don’t feel “at home.” Yes, I am all moved back into the same house I moved out of two (or three+, depending on how one defines “moved”) years ago and it’s the same house I have owned for almost 11 years. Yes, I still know my way around. Yes, I am gainfully employed in a “new” job, but it’s at the institution I spent five years working on my BA and then my MA before starting my journey towards a Ph.D. And, yes, I have a lot of friends here from before. But… things changed while I was gone. The circles have intersected, merged, dissolved and been reincarnated as new circles. This morphing of groups and alliances and loyalties occurs everywhere and amongst all groups and subgroups of friends - but when one is in the midst of it, it is hardly perceptible in real time.

Try moving away and then come back. The familiarity I have with this place is almost deceiving. A lot has changed and after the initial “hey, we’re so glad to have you back,” reaction by a whole lot of people (not all are “friends” in the pre-Facebook sense), that novelty has, apparently, worn off. I am not part of the circle(s) I once was. The evidence, while subtle, is becoming more and more convincing. Where I once was always “in the know” on various different happenings, gatherings, excursions, and the like (some of which require an actual invite, others are open to everyone who shows up), I now find out about such things (often on Facebook) after they have happened. This is not to say that my event folder never gets the telltale red blip indicating an invite is awaiting a response, but I got those kinds of invites when I was in Baton Rouge, too, 2,200 miles away and without a chance of making it. Blanket invites to blanket events are not among the subtleties I am referring to. It unfolds more in the unofficial, in the impromptu, in the circles circling that I am now decidedly on the outside of.

A lot of shit went down while I was gone. That disaster marriage and my now ex-wife took a toll on who is who and what is what. The fallout for all those who were either directly or tangentially affected is over - life has moved on. However, speaking for myself, I am still trying to find my place. The terrain has changed; this is not the same home I left. It was predictable, but I didn’t see it coming. It feels Twilight Zone-esque sometimes. Where the fuck am I? Who the fuck are y’all? Who the fuck am I? It’s like waking up from a dream but it was the dream that was real. This, this real, has become more surreal.

The circles, apparently, are not circles at all. 

They are more like the soap bubbles blown by a kid with a bubble wand. 

They are fragile, short-lived and exceedingly fluid.

Now What?

My first year of full-time professing (which, I must assume, is the act a professor performs) is in the books. It is not my first rodeo, however. Indeed, I have been professing semi-professionally, without the title, for some time now. Now with the nebulous title, “adjunct professor,” I can lay claim to a vocation that is as enigmatic as it is intuitive. Enigmatic because so many, including many of us, cannot say what, exactly, it is we do. We are more than just teachers; we are more than just researchers; and when it comes to professing, speaking for myself at least, the ambiguity of language itself leaves me questioning what that actually means. While I do, for the most part, know what I am doing, I am often not as good at doing it as I wish. My dissertation advisor at LSU once told me that his job extends well beyond mentoring his advisees through grad school. He is part counselor, part friend, part colleague and part many other things, as necessary. That’s the intuitive part - we know we are more than teachers and we can feel that what that is is an important distinction, but I cannot articulate with any more precision what that “more” actually is.

I am also left with a monumental “now what?” One of the benefits of this job is the several blocks of “free” time we are given during the year. Some outside of academia see that as more “vacation” than they get (or more than we deserve), but the fact is that many professors never stop professing through the summer and other breaks. If we are not teaching summer classes, we are researching or preparing for upcoming classes. Although the life of an adjunct professor (or visiting professor, or part-time faculty, or lecturer, or temporary faculty - all of these terms are relatively synonymous) does not entail the rigors of attaining tenure or reaching other non-classroom goals, we are still charged with being ready. And being ready means preparation. For me, this summer, that means doing a significant amount of preparatory work to be ready for the fall semester - to fill the shortcomings revealed in my first year in order to be better next year. It’s not all “vacation,” but it is self-directed. There is no clock to punch, no one to answer to, no students and no superiors. That’s not just me, anyone who takes this job seriously does not look at summer as “summer vacation.”

But some of it is. That’s where the “now what?” comes in. In the past eight years, my summers have been loaded with an abundance of “free” time, but not all of it was and, depending on which summer we’re talking about, it might have been difficult to differentiate it from the preceding spring or the upcoming fall. This is the first summer since 2009 in which I am not a grad student. My graduate career officially comes to an end in August, but for all intents and purposes, I’m done. I threw in the towel on the Ph.D., but I am coming away with another MA just before I time out on it. What that means is more time this summer. It doesn’t mean I have all summer, but a much larger proportion of it belongs to me. Now what? Part of that what is this - writing. I am also going to be reading for my own entertainment, enlightenment, interest, etc., too. But I will be reading for “work,” as well. I’ll be reading a new edition of a textbook and creating curriculum for one class in the hopes I will get a section or two next fall (adjuncts rarely ever know what we will teach until just before we get to teach it). But even with that, I have a lot of time on my hands.

Years ago - at least 10 years, probably more - I discovered something in me that I kind of knew was there, but never paid too much attention. Very broadly defined, it can be called “art.” Or artistry, or an artistic nature, or artistic talent (aren’t all talents artistic?), but to be as clear as possible, let’s just call it “art.” I found art in me. I always wished I had art in me, but felt that when it came to such things, I was not so blessed. I could not sing, I could not play music, I could not draw, I could not paint, I could not sculpt, I could not write poetry. I still can’t, but I can write. I don’t know how or why this “gift” found me, but for a long time I wished a different one did. I am not exactly a “voracious” reader, but there have been long periods of my life that I could be described as such. I don’t know if there is a genetic component and I can’t (nor will I) say that some definition of “god” bestowed me with this ability. Despite all this, I finally acknowledged and embraced not only the fact that I have this artistic talent, but, more importantly, that I have art in me. Furthermore, I believe everyone does. Some are obviously more gifted than others (I am among the “others,” not the “some”), but we all have it.

There is a much larger work of art, larger than anything I have produced thus far, lurking somewhere inside of me. It is painfully obvious that it is not a dissertation, but there is something. There is a big piece of art struggling to get out. It is, perhaps, serendipitous that this urge coincides with the first summer in a long time that I have the time I do. I have a “now what?” and the “what” occurring at precisely the same time. So, I will be writing - and this is the start. It is not a bad start considering today is the first day into the now what/what collision. I have a lot to say, I have a lot of ways to say it and, now, I have a lot of time to get it said.

That’s what.

The Dark and the Light

When I deactivated my Facebook account in February, I did so because the dark side of Facebook was overpowering the light. In fact, the negatives had been outweighing the positives for some time. That is not to say there are no positives, if there was nothing good about it I would not have reconfigured and reactivated my profile after a six-week hiatus. The changes I made are part voluntary and part how I have my security (and other) settings set, and part removing the mobile app from my iPhone. That last part is probably the best part - I no longer take Facebook with me everywhere I go. It no long lives in my pocket.

Among the things I do like about the Facebook is the "On This Day" feature. Since my Facebook history reaches back to 2006, it gives me a pretty good idea of where I was, what I was doing and, probably most importantly, how I was doing over a long and particularly important part of my life. Not always, and certainly not everyday, but sometimes these are pretty significant insights. Today’s is particularly profound. Two years ago today, after a crazy and difficult two years prior, I felt like I was at the end of my rope. I was struggling with not only whether I would be able to finish what I had started at LSU, but in broader terms, what I would do next. I was, in a word, scared.

That post two years ago is now private, but I did not delete it like I do with some posts and comments that are no longer relevant. It is still there because as the years come and go, on this day I will be able to not only see just how "bad" things can get and still be survivable (though, my actual survival was never really in question), but also see how things look from one side can look completely different from the other. That post two years ago received an outpouring of love and support in more than 100 comments and it also generated calls and texts of concern and support. After I wrote and posted it, I took my Harley out for a ride, put some Grateful Dead on the stereo and got lost in the Louisiana bayou back-roads. By the time I returned and read all those comments, my outlook was better.

What I resolved that day - and many since - was that I am indeed capable of finishing the work needed to earn a PhD. Further, I resolved to do that work. Since then, I did cross some serious hurdles in that effort, however, I have not, and now I know I will not, write the dissertation needed to complete the degree. It is not that I am not capable or that I think I am not "PhD material" as I lamented in that post two years ago. I know I can do it, but I also know I will not. It is not beyond my capability; it is beyond my willingness. It took a lot, and I mean a lot of soul-searching and introspection to come to that realization. I am not only okay with my decision, I feel freer than I have in a very long time.

So, were my four years in Baton Rouge a waste? Not even close. I would do it again without hesitation. Not only was the experience at LSU one I could never have dreamed of or replicate, I also made some new friends who will be the lifetime variety. I got to spend some time with family in Louisiana that I otherwise would not have. Further, my connection there is such that it has attained the status of “home.” It was for four years and now it always will be, despite the fact that I will never get “used to the weather.” It also wasn’t a waste in terms of academic achievement - I did complete more than enough to receive a second Master of Arts degree. Finally, all that time in Louisiana shows up in Facebook’s “On This Day” feature almost everyday. Do I need Facebook to make those memories real? Of course not, but it sure is nice them along side the struggles I overcame. There is no question that the two are distinctly connected.

On Books and Things

Some years ago I had a mentor who would say all people have at least one book in them. He probably would not have said that to me, but at the time I was trying to get that book out of me. After a little more than five chapters I found myself at a standstill. Those five-plus chapters are still there, languishing in my computer’s archives, and they have been joined by a handful of other attempts to get that book out of me. So far I’ve only hit dead-ends. At present, I have two, maybe three books floating around in my head. There was one more, one that was actually at the top of my priority list, one that would have to be written before anything else could. It is a book with a very specific designation and designed to accomplish a very concrete goal. That book was going to be my dissertation.

Past tense? Yes, past tense – “was,” not “is.” Of course, the decision not to write my dissertation necessarily includes the decision not to finish my Ph.D. While I am not blazing any sort of new ground in languishing in ABD (“all but dissertation”) land – many have taken the very same route through grad school – it still took a great deal of soul-searching to conclude my graduate career. Some will say and have said things like “why give up when all you have left is just a dissertation.” I have reasoned the same thing, many times, but those two words “all” and “just” significantly minimize what a dissertation actually is. It is a book and in the world of books it is an exceptionally difficult one to write. Although the type of work is not beyond my capability, it is patently obvious that it is beyond my willingness. After recommitting more times than I can remember – with nothing to show for it – I can no longer con myself into thinking that this project is one I am going to finish.

So what does all that mean. Let us recap: After numerous attempts at college since 1981, each with slowly and gradually better results, I returned once again in the fall of 2003. I was 40 years old with a total of about two years of college credits scattered all over the place, both geographically and academically. The upshot was that while I had enough credits to be a junior, they did not meet all of the requirements. This was neither surprising nor important, I had a specific vocational target in 2003 and planned to obtain an AA degree and start a new career as a counselor. That was it - an AA degree and go to work.

For reasons that are beyond the scope of this essay, I never got that AA degree. I transferred to California State University, Sacramento in the fall of 2005, this time with the credits where I needed them to be a junior. And my grades, almost 25 years after graduating from high school, were better than they ever were in my entire life up until that point. I graduated from Sac State magna cum laude in 2007 with a BA in journalism and government, worked briefly as a journalist and went back to school in the fall of 2008 fro an MA in communication studies. That foray into grad school (and the subsequent master’s degree) led me to Louisiana State University in the fall of 2011 to begin work on that Ph.D. All of the work I have done at LSU, without a dissertation, is not worth nothing, however. I have completed enough (actually, more than enough) to be awarded a Master of Arts degree from LSU as well. The total then is one BA and two MAs, not too bad for someone who flunked out of San Diego State University in 1985.

But still, the idea of “just” a dissertation haunts me a little bit. Another mentor of mine who is also a very good friend is concerned that I will regret this decision later in life. I cannot say he will be right or wrong, I honestly don’t know. I can say that whether I regret it or not, I will survive and I will quite likely have something to say (write, share… something) about that experience as well. Because that is what all this is – experience. It is also why I do not regret making the attempt. It was definitely not a waste of time or money. The experience of going so far away in pursuit of such a lofty and elusive goal – a goal I really have no business being so close to in the first place – is an accomplishment in and of itself. I left SDSU 21 years ago with a 0.7 GPA and today I have not one, but two master’s degrees, both from very highly regarded schools. The “failure” in getting my Ph.D. is still success by any objective measure.

So, back to those books. Now that the mental strain of writing something I could not bring myself to write is relieved, I can put effort into doing what is calling me. In the meantime, I have a job teaching that rewards me in ways money cannot, but it is also sufficiently financially rewarding (barely, a rant for another time) so that I can pursue my other interests, namely getting those books out of my head. One of them, a compilation of many of these blog posts, is largely already written, but there is still a science-fiction apocalyptic novel and a memoir that are trying to free themselves. It’s time I gave them a way out.

"It"

Once upon a time, a few years ago, I thought I might write a novel. Although it would be decidedly fictional, I would, like many novelists do, base it on so many experiences. My thinking was (and to some extent still is) that my trials and tribulations – both those that were self imposed as well as those that were just “bad luck” – could be used to sculpt a compelling narrative. It could be an adventure, it could be a tragedy, it could even be a comedy depending on how I chose to put the pieces together. I didn’t think about it that thoroughly at the time (a theme that would have to appear in any story I write, it is the story of my life), but that didn’t stop me from plunging in. I started to write it. I even created a blog to post it. After three chapters, despite very positive feedback from the few who read them, I stopped.

I haven’t written any fiction since. I would say that I haven’t even done any “creative” writing since, but that is as false a statement as is the genre “creative writing.” All writing is creative. True, the creations are not all beautiful, the creations do not all rise to the level of art, or at least not good art, but the act of putting words together to create something that did not exist before is, by definition, creative. However, when it comes to making stories that did not exist before, the work of fiction and the writing of novelists, it means more than creating just new combinations of words. Most of the stories created run along familiar themes, many are adapted from age-old ideas and many, while still running along these familiar themes, are also about us – all of us – not just the lives lived by those who write, but about all of our lives.

It seems the human experience in all its unlimitedness is mostly nuances of very old, very familiar stories. Love, love lost. Good versus evil. Triumph. Tragedy. Greed. Redemption. And a host of other common themes make up the walls of the box we all live in. My story was based on a reality/dream sequence that would come to some resolution in the end, but leave the reader wondering (as I do in real life) what is really real. I was simply retelling a new version of what happened to me about 15 years ago. It was surreal, but in a fiction/non-fiction sense, it was firmly rooted on the non-fiction side of the tracks. So, even my one solid attempt at this so-called “creative writing,” my one serious attempt at fiction, was simply an account of what I dreampt combined with changing the names (to protect both the innocent and the not-so-innocent).

Recently, the ideas have started coming at me again. The creation part of these ideas involves, obviously, new writing, but it also involves creating new stories. The hard part, as always, is transforming the ideas into words; the act of giving life to my characters and painting a landscape for the world they live in is creative, sure, but it is also a lot of fucking work. It’s all stuff I didn’t think about when I attempted to do it before. But it’s also stuff I’ve done over and over and over and over again. It’s simply a different level of abstraction. The stories are limited, but the characters, the world and the time in which they act are left to the imagination of the writer. It’s not that I could not imagine such stories – I believe everyone is equally creative – it’s the ability, the willingness and the desire to do the work of creation. That, for me, has always been a moving target. When everything is just right (and “just right” is not something I can create, apparently), the words just poor out of me. When it’s not, I am shut down. Something has been seriously not right for a while now. I don’t know what it is, but I do think it is near the end.

Therefore, the moral of this story extends well beyond the story itself. Also, what is not written here is important, too. This story is not over yet. The particular sub-plot or chapter or part xx could be a story of triumph, it could be one of tragedy, it is already in some ways comedy and in terms of love and love lost, those elements exist as well. But how the end comes about is still not known. A mushy, gooey happy ending? I’ve never been much for those, but to experience one for once would be nice. Life, and my life especially, is not nearly so neat. Life is messy. It seems as though I haven’t much choice in the matter, but in the big picture is could be worse. Much worse. One thing is sure -

it won’t get written unless I write it. And by “it,” I am not talking about some novel.

The Time Has Come

I finally pulled the trigger. I decided to deactivate my Facebook profile. It is odd to me that this is such an emotional decision. Maybe “emotional” isn’t the right word, but it is almost like severing ties with a close friend or a loved one because the relationship has become dysfunctional, at best, or toxic, at worst. And the fact that I have this love/hate relationship with not only an inanimate object, but also a virtual one is an idea that does not sit well with me. It is all the more reason to move on. There is a great big real world that Facebook can only capture the briefest glimpses of; I want, I need, the whole enchilada. As I posted in my last Facebook post (a virtual “Dear John” letter, of sorts), the platform, while still very useful for probably too many things, has, in its enormity, outlived its usefulness. It is too pervasive, too all-encompassing, too omnipresent, too omnipotent and too omniscient. Sound like god-like qualities? Yes, to me, too. It is just too much.

 

Still, as freeing as this moment is, and as pivotal as the plug-pulling will be this time tomorrow (I did give a one-day notice along with info on how I can be reached outside of Facebook), it is bittersweet. Among my idiosyncrasies, my desire to be connected and know what is going on in the world (a moving target, right now the world is a very big place) has been fed like never before with the dawn of the age of information and its primary agent, the Internet. While I have no intention of removing myself from the information grid, this particular node known as Facebook has gained way too much of the pie. It has increased my tolerance in that what I must now know includes the petty, the ridiculous, the scandalous, the hatful and the inane. To use a recent Facebook viral colloquialism, “Ain’t nobody got time for that!” Furthermore, I find myself constantly condensing my thoughts on very involved and complicated subjects into tiny little Facebook bite-sized chunks.

I am already past the Facebook “read limit” (about 100 words, give or take) in this blog post. But there is so much more. I have fallen into perceptual errors on more than one occasion – instances where the “reality” depicted on Facebook was nowhere close to reality. I have run into instances where I have seen sides of people – masked by the quasi-anonymity of distance mediated by the Internet – that I did not know, might not be real and I do not want to know. It might not be any coincidence that the polarization we see at a national – even a world wide – level is due, in part, to the removal of cordiality, decorum and respect that is necessarily part of face-to-face communication.

Overall, I am drowning in the vastness of “too much.” Too much everything, all the time, all at once. I have had this Facebook account since 2006, but never really started using it until about a year later. In that time, I have witnessed the medium explode. It is wondrous, it really is. But it is also too much. The novelty was bound to wear off. Nothing lasts forever – Facebook won’t, either. For me, it has run its course. Sayonara, Facebook.

Another Piece of the Pie

Don McLean's classic, "American Pie," has been the subject of interpretation and reinterpretation since its release almost 45 years ago. Some verses are not very thinly veiled (the "girl who sang the blues" likely refers to Janice Joplin, for example), while others are much more cryptic. McLean himself famously will not reveal what the lyrics meant to him when he wrote them, saying instead that they mean whatever we (the audience) believes they mean. Fair enough, such is art. But the overall theme of the song, especially when taken in context with McLean’s history and other professed beliefs, speaks of a theme we hear a lot of - especially during election time.

The song is a lament, a funeral oration - it is mourning the passing of a happier, purer time. It memorializes the post-war 50s and the "good times" that disappeared in the 60s. The turning point, for McLean, was "the day the music died," but the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper is simply a place holder. However, if you weren't male, white and Christian, the 50s were not so great for you. The strides made in the 60s and since, although they came with a great deal of upheaval and even though some things - some would argue some good things - were lost along the way, were absolutely necessary for this nation to live by what its founding documents say. Apparently, by 1971 when “American Pie” was released, McLean (and others) had had enough. Some, like Nixon and his "silent majority," tried to regain what was lost. Others, like McLean, were more realistic. McLean's response was his famous funeral oration. For him, the day the music died was the day America died - at least the Utopian America he believed existed in his youth.

Still, the song does what all good art does - it opens a new perspective. It means different things to different people and what those things are depends significantly on what we experienced in the years of our lives. It places a lens on the past and offers a vision to the future. And that interpretation (if it is really good art) is open to multiple reinterpretations. So it has been for me with "American Pie." While I can certainly see how McLean and others feel as though the idealism so often cast into the 50s was lost to the 60s, it is also worth noting that that Utopian idealism is more fabrication than it is reality. If everything was so great for everyone, the 60s would have looked just like the 50s, and, truth be told, rock would be, in fact, quite dead. By the time 1960 rolled around, the dripping sweet, substance free music was already being panned as vacuous and a passing fad. In the meantime, real serious things were going on in the world.

There are numerous accounts in “American Pie” of musicians who have passed – and prophetically, at least one who would be shot down in his prime in the coming years. Some died due to their own excesses, others for other reasons, but none died from old age. None died a “natural” death (as though any death could be anything but natural). With them and the many other artists of all stripes who have passed since, their talent and their continued work necessarily died with them. And, as these early rockers age, they are beginning to succumb to “old age” as well. But there is something in McLean’s masterpiece that he fails to grip, something that is also true of “American Pie.” The art itself lives on. It is true of “American Pie” already. Those who listen today can find much more recent events to link its metaphors to and, likewise, find within its lyrics an entirely different and, hopefully, more optimistic future ahead.

 

For Mclean, however, it could be that parts of the 50s (and earlier) are not so easily set aside. Although this recent turn of events does not mean, in and of itself, that misogyny is part of what McLean is mourning, it is true that misogyny was but one of the many paradigms the 60s helped to redefine. No, this recent turn of events might not mean anything at all in terms of life then and life now. It could just mean that McLean is an asshole. I guess that is up to us (the audience) to decide that as well.