The Story of Winter, Part 5

"On the third night, the earth took a different approach. Instead of causing another disaster, the earth produced a bounty of its rich resources -- food, fuel, and shelter. See how my riches allow humanity to survive the worst that the other elements may bring, boasted the earth.

"Fire, on the fourth night, took yet another strategy. Rather than spreading itself in wild contagions, fire decided that it's absence would make a far greater threat to humanity. So fire for one night removed itself from the land, leaving humanity cold and afraid. See how humanity calls out to me in their need, boasted fire.

The Story of Winter, Part 4

"The air was given the first night, for a reason which has unfortunately been lost to antiquity," my mother explained, in an obvious attempt to suppress my question. "And on that first night, tornados tore through the land, uprooting homes and sending humanity scurrying for cover. See how I have obliterated all of man's achievements! the air boasted at the end of that first night."

"Water went next, but its plan to flood the land on that second night was thwarted by the air, which did not permit rain to fall, and the earth, which fortified its river banks and sea shores. You cannot allow this interference!, so water complained to the Sun, yet the Sun replied -- yes, dear, the Sun could still talk even though it was sleeping -- that no rules had been made against such actions. May I assume, then, that alliances are permitted as well? asked water, and when the Sun said yes, water and fire made a pact not to interfere with each other's plans. Water then removed heat from the land, causing fearsome ice to form on humanity's roads, crops to spoil, livestock to die. See how I have taken away humanity's ability to survive, boasted the water at the end of that second night."

The Story of Winter, Part 3

I interrupted my mother at that point in her story. I told her that, even though I was just a kid, I knew enough about science to know that the sun was a star, and Earth a planet, and like all planets the Earth rotated around the sun, which meant the sun never really went to sleep like she said in her story. I then asked if the Sun was so smart then why did it need to stage a silly competition in order to figure out which element was the strongest, and by the way, what did any of this have to do with winter?

My mother closed her eyes a moment, then reopened them slowly and spoke softly. "You've asked me three questions. I am glad for your first, for it shows that you do not completely trust storytellers -- no, the sun does not sleep, my little scientist. But when I finish this tale, you may learn that there are truths in stories that cannot be expressed by science. Your second question demonstrates your impatience, for it will be clear by story's end why the Sun's competition is necessary. And your third question -- 'what does any of this have to do with winter?' -- speaks to your lack of faith."

I reminded my mother that she had praised me for not trusting storytellers before so why was she questioning my lack of faith now. She frowned, and said "Johnny Carson's on in ten minutes, kid. You wanna hear the rest of this story, or not?" She tossled my head, which made me laugh, and she continued.

The Story of Winter, Part 2

Resuming her normal tone, my mother continued, "The argument among the elements was felt throughout creation -- wind stirred up the oceans, fire swept through the lands and clouded the air, rivers overflowed their banks. Humanity, driven to desperation by the devastation, cried out to the Sun for deliverance, and the Sun showed mercy on humanity and spoke to each of the elements. 'If you will agree to cease your hostilities,' the Sun decreed, 'I will agree to judge a competition between you. If you will accept my decision as final, I shall determine which of you elements is the mightiest.' The elements agreed that the Sun, whose light shines equally on all, would be the best to judge such a contest, which the Sun set down as this: on each of the next four nights, while the sun slept, one element would be allowed to show its power. After the fourth night, the Sun would determine which element had shown the most power."

The Story of Winter, Part 1

One bitterly cold February evening when I was child, I asked my mother as she was putting me to bed why winter was so harsh. She smiled, tucked the thick blankets under my chin (we turned the thermostat down low in the evening to save money), and asked, "Would you like to hear a story my uncle told me many years ago, when I was a child, a story of how winter began?" Yes, I said.

"Do you know the four elements?" she asked, and I replied that I did -- earth, air, water, and fire.

"Which of these are the most powerful?" she asked me. I told her I was not sure, and she smiled. "Well, if you were to ask the elements which was the most powerful, you would get the same reply from each -- It is I, of course," my mother said, lowering her tone and lifting her hand in imitation of the elemental voices.

Kiss Part 2

Her kiss warmed her deeply, and that warmth emanated out to the cool of her skin, giving her goosebumps. She kissed him to generate that warmth, and hoped to send some of that warmth over to him, through her lips, her hands.

Kiss Part 1

His kiss felt like an explosion, his desire for her releasing after months of suppression, his energy unleashing upon her. He kissed violently, slobbering his lips and thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth -- no thought of technique, just energy and enthusiasm.

Foam Pit Part 4

Bernie pushed yellow foam blocks aside until he was face to face with Annie, who smiled with nervous excitement. He hesitated a moment, then Annie touched his left shoulder, pulled him gently towards her. Bernie reached down, and kissed her lips, swiftly and gently as if they were hot to the touch, and pulled back, pushing against the foam blocks to lift himself up. Annie sat up suddenly, causing Bernie to sit back a moment. He then lunged at her, plunging her deeper into the pit, their lips locked and limbs embraced in an awkward, enthusiastic embrace.

The Eumenides

Ah, you gotta love the Furies. "And now my lungs are blown with abundant and with wearisome work, mankilling." Legend has it that at the initial performance of Aeschylus' play, their site was so fearsome that a pregnant woman in the audience suffered a miscarriage and died. Theirs is a poetic language of violence and terror, and there are few more terrifying figures in literature. Yet there's a point to their terror -- the fear they generate in men is meant to be a constraint on pride and criminal thought. "Men's illusions in their pride under the sky melt down, and are diminished into the ground, gone before the onset of our black robes."

They probably don't generate as much critical attention as the Furies or the other main characters, but you gotta feel for the citizens who are called by Athena to serve on the jury. They're verdict on Orestes' killing of Clytamnestra is a choice between the Furies and the gods Apollo and Athena. Which is worse -- risking the violent wrath of the ancient, vindictive Kindly Ones, or the disapproval of the young, powerful dieties? Aeschylus gives the jury a break by having them split their vote evenly, leaving Athena to intervene divinely and spare Orestes. For me it's all a little too neat at the end, Athena appeasing the Furies by giving them a seat of honor in her city, but it's the language of the Furies that I'll always love about this piece. "There are times when fear is good. It must keep its watchful place at the heart's controls."

Reason

"So why did you join the fencing team?" asked the Coach.

Bernie shrugged. "Not really sure. I just did."

"If you don't mind me saying, I hear that from you a lot," said the Coach. "You make decisions, without thinking about the reason why you're making those decisions. You don't think things through. I worry about you, Bernie -- that's not good."

"Just going with the flow, Coach. Doing what seems right. Is that so bad?"

"Nah, lot of the time that works out just fine. But there comes a time when you have to decide, this is what I want to do. You figure out what it is you want in life, and you go for it. That part about figuring out what you want -- that's what's missing."

Bernie looked silently at the Coach a moment. He then looked to the side, and laughed. "You know what the issue is? I don't know what I want -- but I sure as heck know what I don't want. That's what motivates me, getting away, staying away, from the things I know I don't want."

Foam Pit Part 3

Bernie looked down at Annie, lying sprawled with a wide grin on top of the grey and yellow blocks of foam. He then dropped Annie's coat, pulled off his own swiftly, and leapt awkwardly into the pit to Annie's laughter. Annie sat up and tossed a torn foam block with large divots at Bernie, who gave a cry of mock indignation, then stood up and tossed several blocks at Annie. Annie squealed and began crawling to the edge of pit, and Bernie leapt to tackle her.

Foam Pit Part 2

Bernie veered off from Annie, and walked over to the foam pit. "Kids jump into this?"

"It's a big hit," Annie said, taking of her coat as she walked over to the pit. She handed her coat to Bernie, said, "Let me show you." A balance beam was in place at one end of the pit, and Annie mounted it swiftly. She smiled down at Bernie, and jumped, twisting in the air so that she landed on her back into the pit. She looked at Bernie throughout her fall.

Bernie looked down at Annie, who was lying with her arms and legs spread wide. "Dive in," she said with a giggle. "Give it a shot."

Saturday morning

The accumulated silt of exhaustion had been washed away by a good night's rest, and she began that Saturday with the wonderful expectation of getting a lot accomplished while still free from the anxiety of being on a schedule. All would get done, in its time.

Friday

His view of the world was all of a Friday evening, tired and feeling his exhaustion was proof that he had earned the right to be free of all obligation and responsibility.

Foam Pit

Annie handed her foil to Bernie, then jumped off the balance beam landing next to him. Bernie handed her coat to her and started walking toward the front door; Annie stopped him and pointed to a side door that was closer to where Bernie had parked his car. As they walked over, Bernie noticed an odd pattern in the floor next to the wall. "Is that -- a hole, filled with -- something yellow?"

"Yeah, it is a hole," Annie said with an excited lift to her voice, "filled with large styrofoam blocks that we picked up from a warehouse across the street. That hole used to be the oil changing pit when this place was a garage -- the workers would get down in the pit and work on cars overhead. When they turned this into a gym, the owner thought about covering it over, but then one day she saw those blocks being thrown out across the street and thought she could use them for some type of landing area to protect gymnasts when they dismount. And then she looked at this pit again, and suddenly, it all came together for her. Little kids love it -- they just jump right in."

The Wall Part 5

Bernie stood with his foil, not moving. A moment passed before LYS motioned him forward, saying "You're supposed to be attacking me."

Bernie walked forward, then lunged with his foil. LYS swiftly parried his attack aside, saying "No! Extend your arm first, then lunge. Do it again!"

Bernie gathered himself, then with a deliberately slow motion to show that he was doing as he was told, extended his foil until his arm was straight. He then lunged, and LYS swiftly parried again. "Better. At least you had right of way that time. Now again, quicker this time."

Bernie extended and lunged in the same motion, and this time when LYS parried he riposted immediately and scored a hit on Bernie. "Not fast enough. Next!"

The Wall Part 4

DJ thrust his arms down forcefully, the swish of his linen proclaiming his frustration, and stormed away. Cassandra approached LYS, humming.

LYS help the palm of his left hand up to Cassandra. "Hold on, little one. There's no talking during a bout."

"It's how I concentrate," said Cassandra.

"No talking," insisted LYS.

"I wasn't talking, I was humming."

"Look, if you're not ready to follow the rules, then you obviously don't belong here."

"Hey!" cried the Coach. "I'm in charge here, I say who stays and doesn't."

Cassandra had turned her head to look at the Coach, then turned back to LYS, and looked at him squarely. "Victory is not possible for you," she said.

LYS' eyes got big. The Coach stepped forward and was about to speak, when suddently LYS laughed. "OK then!" said LYS. "Show me what you've got."

Cassandra approach gingerly, and LYS stood motionless, chuckling. Cassandra extended her foil, feet still on the ground, and LYS, rather than parrying, leaned to his left to avoid the touch. Cassandra extended again, and LYS leaned to his right, chuckling more forcefully. Another extension, and LYS ducked down, then extended with his foil for the touch.

Balance

Bernie walked into the high-ceilinged gymnasium, which still had the black smell of motor oil from the building's former tenant. He saw Annie, wearing dance shoes powdered in white chalk, standing high on the balance beam. She was holding her foil, eyes focused on the tip, her knees bent. She lifted the toes of her lead foot, then the heel, moved the foot forward, then quickly raised her back foot and brought it forward. Another advance, two, then a retreat, rear foot lifting and going back followed by a push off her front.

The Libation Bearers

This is the second play in Aeschylus' Orestia trilogy. The focus here is on Electra and Orestes, Agamemnon's children, both of whom seek revenge for their father's murder. Yet while Electra never hesitates in her call for divine vengence against her mother and stepfather, Orestes almost has to be forced into the deed -- his buddy Pylades has to remind him that Apollo has threatened all kinds of ghastly discomfort should he fail. There's some simple but effective dramatic touches as well -- setting the scene in the evening, the nurse Clissa's almost comic monologue on childrearing ("the nurse and the laundrywoman had a combined duty"), and Orestes' display of the sheet that ensnared his father during his murder as he argues the justice of his action to the audience.

The Wall Part 3

Annie stomped her lead foot in anger, giving way in a huff to DJ, who quickly launched himself at LYS. DJ thrust his foil, and LYS parried with a loud clang, staggering a bit from the force of DJ's attack. DJ and LYS then lunged simultaneously, both hitting the other.

"Second intention" DJ said quickly.

"Incorrect!" LYS replied. "Parry riposte. The right of way is mine, as is the touch."

"No! My second intention came before the riposte."

"Enough!" cried the Coach. "Continue the drill -- next fencer!"

The Wall Part 2

The team lined up behind Butch to begin the drill, a series of one-touch duels. Butch lunged clumsily, and LYS parried and riposted (with an audible tut of impatince) to score quickly. Butch moved aside for Annie, who stood calmly and waited for LYS to make the first move. He lunged to her right, and she moved her foil to parry; however, LYS flicked his wrist down and to his right, his foil moving under Annie's parry, and he completed his lunge to score a touch. "That, my dear," he said with panache, "is your basic disengage thrust."

The Wall

"So what now, Coach?" Last Year's Superstar yelled. "Wall drill?"

The Coach cleared his throat. "Yeah. Wall would be good."

"Cool! I'll start." Donning a mask and taking up a foil, LYS walked to the far side of the cafeteria, the wall opposite the large windows. LYS turned his back to one of the tables, rolled up vertically on large wheels covered in dust-covered grime.

"And who do we have first?" he asked, as Butch approached.

"My family calls me Billy," he said in an affected tone of nobility, "but I prefer the name, Butch." He brought the hilt of his foil up to his face, and extended it vertically in salute.

LYS swiped his foil sharply, clanging loudly again Butch's. "This is a drill, you clown," he said. "You don't salute in a drill!"

Remise

DJ lunged again, and attempted the same disengage-thrust technique as before. Bernie recognized the tactic, this time parrying DJ's attack. He lunged into his riposte, but the tip of his blade sailed over DJ's shoulder. Bernie cursed, dropping his shoulders.

"Remise!" the Coach yelled. "If you miss, draw back your elbow quickly, and attack again. Don't give up so easily."

Cold

The coach walked up to Cassandra, who was looking straight down at the ground.

"Talk to me," he said. "What's going on?"

Cassandra looked up, and extended her right arm, which lightly clutched her foil. The coach looked moved his gaze from the hilt to the tip, then raised his eyebrows. "OK then. Something's wrong with your weapon, I take it?"

"Cold," Cassandra said.

The coach squeezed his eyes together. "You have a cold foil?" Cassandra blushed, shook her head. "You're cold?" Another shake. "Help me out here, Cassie," he said. "What -- "

"Is it too heavy?" said DJ behind the Coach.

"Yes," said Cassandra.

The Coach looked at the handle. "That's one of the men's foils," he said. "Swap it out if it's too heavy."

"OK."

"Can I ask why you didn't say it was too heavy at the start? Why did you say it was cold?"

"Cold things -- feel heavy to me."

"But it was heavy, not cold."

"I know. I meant to say it was heavy."

"So why did you say it was cold."

"Because -- that was the word that came out of my mouth. It wasn't what I meant, it was what I said."

Words

"It's not that I'm shy," said Cassandra. "I want to say what's on my mind. It's just . . . "

"Just what?" asked Annie.

Cassandra exhaled forcefully, vibrating her lips. She closed her eyes, looked down. When Annie asked what was wrong, Cassandra's head snapped up, eyes open, and pointed to her temple.

"It's all here," she said hurriedly. "I can see it, feel it, but I don't know what words to use. Those thoughts, they feel so good, so right, but  . . . these thoughts have to be carried outside my mind, and the only way I can do that is through words, but I can't find the right words to transport those thoughts. I can almost feel my thoughts travelling down to my mouth, causing my lips to move and sounds to come from my throat . . . but they're missing words. So I speak the closest thing I can think of at the moment to what my original thought was. And I know it. That's why I sound so hesitant -- I'm using the only words I know how to use, even though I know they're not right."

Thanks

"I wish we knew where he was," Bernie said, speaking of the coach years later. "I'd like to speak to him, talk about the fencing team, how much it meant to all of us back then. With the way things ended -- well, the team really didn't end, it just kind of stopped. And truth is, if I had an opportunity back then to say goodbye to him, I probably wouldn't have taken it, I was just too angry and upset, just wanted to be done with fencing, and with the coach. But yeah, you're perspective changes over the years, and I realize now what the coach was trying to tell me. And the thing I'd like to say to him now is -- thank you for showing me the truth about myself. Even though I couldn't accept that truth at the time, there was no way I could go back to my delusions after that year on the fencing team. I didn't want to know the truth back then, but I needed to know -- and that's why I can finally be thankful to him after all these years."

Agamemnon

I've decided to revisit the classical Greek literature I studied in college, partly for the mental exercise, another part in the hope of finding inspiration for my fiction. Yesterday I started with Agamemnon, the first of the three-part Orestia cycle of tragic plays from Aeschylus (that I was able to spell both the title and author's name correctly without consulting an outside reference is a minor point of pride). What strikes me when re-reading the play is how the private tragedy of the house of Atrius becomes very public. Agamemnon's murder by his wife Clytaemenstra and cousin Aegisthus (I must confess, I had to look up those two names) is more than just revenge for the feast of Thyestes (I'm back on track -- got it right the first time!); it creates a political crisis for the people of Argolis, as represented by the Chorus, who are now ruled by the cruel tyrant Aegisthus, who does not attempt to disguise his plans for authoritarian rule. But this public consequence is not unprecedented, as the assassination is also motivated by Agamemnon's sacrifice of his daughter Iphigenia (I'm on fire!) in order to gain favorable winds needed for the voyage to Ilium and the Trojan War -- a very public act, with a very private consequence. I'm curious to see how this combination of public and private tragedy will be extended in the other two plays in the cycle.

The Great Gatsby

I somehow managed to get through high school and study literature in college without reading this classic novel from F. Scott Fitzgerald. It is a rare treat to read a canonical work free from the memory of a lecture or exam, and enjoy it on one's own terms. What I find particularly appealing is Fitzgerald's wonderful prose, his simple yet powerful language.

[F]ifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars.

 At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment houses.

I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters . . .

The images grow organically from the pages, the language never calling attention to its cleverness, metaphors never extended too long like a party guest who doesn't realize it is time to leave. It is concise, beautiful writing, full of meaning yet never full of itself -- a novel worthy of being in the canon of great literary works.

The Classics

"I've always enjoyed classical literature, the Greek and Roman legends," said Bernie. "On the one hand, it's very basic -- this army's fighting that army, some guy's in love with someone forbidden. But it doesn't get lost in the boring details. There's little exposition, or dialogue, or God help us, poetry, or nothing like what we think of as poetry. It's about the ideas, and those ideas can appeal to anyone. They transcend politics, or technology. It's real stuff."

Mask

The fencing mask, honeycombed with rigid narrow wires, seemed like the interior of a metallic hive for tiny bees. At the bottom of the mask, a chin rest and neck guard was attached with metallic buttons. Having been purchased second-hand from the state university, most masks had at least a few exterior dents or small breaks in the wiring, and no amount of washing could remove the stain and smell of the sweat that had accumulated on the chin rest and neck guards. The coach responded to each plead for new equipment with a bemused shrug, and a pat answer that at least sounded better than the truth, that he had been lucky to get the money for equipment in the first place and there was no question about there being any more where that came from. "The masks, they're like the cars most people have in this town," he would say. "A fender bender here and there, rust from all the ice and salt in winter. But so long as it gets you from here to there, people stick with their cars, until they can't run anymore. It's not just a matter of finances, it's a principle, further proof that you can survive no matter what happens. These masks -- a mask won't make you a great fencer. It might help you look more like a fencer, but in the end, it doesn't do anything for you. We don't need new masks -- we need to practice more."

Spring

The cold slumber of winter gave way to spring, which rose greenly from the earth with a freshness and vibrancy that seemed novel.

Desolation

The wind blew strongly over the white field, thin streams of snow jetting over the long white blanket. To him, the field looked barren, desolate, all life and comfort seeming to have abandoned long ago.

Team

"Being on the fencing team is the best of both worlds," DJ said. "During a bout, I rely entirely on myself -- I win or lose on my own merits, not because of something one of my teammates did. I've done team sports, and I hate them -- you can do everything right, but fail because one of your teammates has his head up his butt on a play, and you can also win when you know you have no right to the victory. Fencing is like golf, or tennis -- it's a true test of individual excellence. But the problem with golf and tennis is, you usually train and prepare on your own as well. That's what's great about the fencing team -- we train together, travel together, share each other's joys and pains."

Cold

It was a penetrating, stabbing cold, contracting his back muscles until they spasmed from fatigue.

Mistake

"I don't make mistakes," DJ said. "I offer alternatives. And because society cannot accept disruptions to conformity, they tell me I'm mistaken."

The Familiar

"Cut me some slack with the Mr. Chips routine," said DJ. "If you won't say it, Coach, I will. You started this fencing team because living here in Edwards was starting to drive you nuts. It's OK, Coach, we understand, we're itching to get out of here as well. Happens all the time -- people move here, thinking they're gonna get away from it all, and the slower pace of life is a welcome relief for a while, but then they realize that, guess what, they have gotten away from it all -- everything! And then this town doesn't look quaint and tranquil anymore, it's quiet, boring, not like anything you've ever experienced before. But you're not like most people who move here, you've got a good job, one you want to hold on to, one you don't think you can beat somewhere else. But how can you stay here without driving yourself crazy? Why, you try to bring in something from your past, something that makes this world seem more like the one you came from. You're making yourself a home with this fencing team, Coach -- and that's cool, because we love it, and we think you're great. But please, don't start with this pious stuff about doing it for us, because you're doing it for yourself."

Circle

Coach concluded each practice with the circle drill, where one fencer at circle center would face each member of the team, one at a time and for only one touch, as they stood along the perimeter. The personality of each fencer would become most clear at this time. Annie never moved first, whether at the center or perimeter -- her game was to respond with the perfect counter-move to however her opponent attacked. DJ, on the other hand, moved aggressively, often lunging immediately, sometimes feinting first but always attacking first. Bernie would move to his opponent slowly, almost hesitantly. Butch waved his foil back and forth with anxious energy.

DJ

Call me DJ. Started with John Jacob, which became JJ, then Double-J, now DJ. I started fencing because let's face it, all other sports suck, unless you like phonies and egomaniacs and scripted melodrama. There is a beautiful simplicity to fencing -- it's just you and your opponent, neither of you there to get your name in the paper or impress the cheerleaders or make your parents proud. Our motivations are pure, and the competition is art. I fence for myself, but my fencing makes the world a better place.

Fear

"What the hell happens to you during bouts?" asked the coach in exasperation. "It's like you forget everything you've been working on in practice. You're all arms and legs -- you fence like you've got scorpions in your underwear."

"It's like this energy jolt, all through my body," said Bernie. "I just want to throw myself out there, get it over with."

"You know what that's all about, buddy? It's about believing in your training, trusting that if you stick to what you've learned, you'll do OK. Don't you trust me?"

"You? Coach? Of course I trust you, man. It's that I don't trust myself. I don't think I can properly execute. I trust the messenger, and the message -- I just can't believe what I'm reading."

Nerves

"Sure I get nervous during bouts. But it's not about losing, it's about letting myself down. Don't want to sound full of myself, but with my training, my coaching, I should win. When I don't win, I feel like I've done something wrong, didn't prepare properly, let up physically, didn't look for my opponent's weakness."

"You really think you should win every bout?" Bernie asked.

A thoughtful pause from Annie. "Nobody's perfect -- there's no way I could win every bout. But I can look back at every loss and know what I could have done, should have done, differently.

Chance

His answers to questions about why he had joined the fencing team were always vague, inarticulate -- dunno, not sure, it's just cool I guess -- but sincere, because his motivations for joining the team weren't even clear to him. But the pain of his disappointment now made his motivation clear. He had seen fencing as an opportunity, a chance to be good at something. But this turned out to be another lost opportunity, another avenue for frustration. He had hoped fencing would be an escape, but it had turned out to be another trap.

Dancer

Annie smiled. "This is going to sound weird I know -- but the part about fencing I like most is the footwork. I love dancing, have taken lessons all my life. I love everything about dancing -- the conditioning, the artistry, choreography and the spontaneity working together. To take what I've learned about footwork, coordination, balance, and use it in a sport, a competition . . . fencing combines everything that I enjoy about life."

Admiration

"Billy's great, man. Yeah, he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knows what his limits are, and he's happy with that. He'll never be able to figure things out on his own, but once you show him something, he never forgets it. You and I," Bernie said, looking Annie straight in the eyes, "life for us is a puzzle, and we're constantly trying to put the pieces in the right places. Billy, he doesn't care. We figure things out, Billy let's life figure itself out for him. That means he's always going to be happy -- life will be one series of pleasant discoveries for him."

Practice

"Yeah, I do enjoy the practice more than the competition. When we practice, we're a group. During a bout, or a tournament, it's just you. Practicing is a social experience, but competition is anti-social -- you're not even allowed to talk! Remember that time I said 'nice job' to my opponent, and the judge gave me a warning?"

The Bucket

Her family was comfortably middle-class, frugal both by temperament and necessity. They were wealthy enough to afford what they needed, but not wealthy enough to replace aging appliances or tools. Household items were never temporary, but rather indispensable parts of their home, with their own names. They didn't have a bucket in the home, but rather they had The Bucket, which they would call to ("where's The Bucket?") to fill such vital tasks as moping the floor, carrying dirt, and waiting by a sick family member's bedside. Being as useful as it was, The Bucket would become a source of argument, because you were just going to have to find some other way to plant your petunias, I need The Bucket to help me wash the car.

Edwards

The wooden footings of the old piers rose from the river's surface, then abruptly ended at uneven breaking points, and looked like decaying brown teeth. Edwards had been a renowned port in the days of wooden ships, a focal point for the minerals, furs, and lumber of the area. When more modern forms of transportation opened trade opportunities in other ports, the rocky terrain and rolling hills that surrounded Edwards made the town less enticing for merchants. The town suffered immensely for decades, and over three-quarters of the population left; those who remained, though, took their survival as a sign of their strength, their perseverance. The memory of Edwards' glory days as a bustling port were long gone, but its spirit of survival remained.

Creativity

His creative instinct was along the lines of Mad Magazine, familiar jokes and routines with new subject matter.

Genius

The scope of his artistic genius was limited to composing lyrics to pop songs, lyrics that told a mildly sarcastic (never challenging) story about his job, his friends, eminent politicians or celebrities.

Wonder

He could enjoy the world so long as it filled him with wonder, but when novelty gave way to familiarity, discovery to routine, he would lose interest. The discipline required to understand rather than be amazed was not nearly as interesting.

Equipment

The smell of damp linen hung over the equipment. The coach laundered the jackets and neck guards in the spring, at the end of the season, and in-season laundering was rare. By the second or third practice most of the team had identified a certain jacket, mask, and weapon as their own.

Practice

"Fencing is won with the feet." Lead foot pointing forward, trailing foot pointing to the side, eight inches apart, heels in line. Advance -- lift the lead foot, toe first then heel, push and extend, now lift the back foot (lift, lift, don't drag, lift), bring forward. Retreat -- lift the back foot (Scott, you're dragging, gotta lift), push back from the front leg, plant the back, raise the front toe (lift, keep your knees bent that will help), then the heel, step back (lift!). Lunge -- extend the front leg, push hard off the rear leg, full extension.

The Argument

"You didn't see that ending coming?" Bernie asked.

"No, because I wasn't looking for it," Billy replied. "When I see a movie, I don't like trying to figure out what's going to happen, like you always do. Me, I prefer to take it all in -- the characters, dialogue, the scenery. You know, I heard Mr. Shepard say once that back in Shakespeare's time, at the front of the playhouse they would print the plot of the play, so when you were going to see Hamlet, you already knew what was going to happen. Called it the 'argument,' was what Mr. Shepard said. People did that back then because they were there to hear what the playwright wrote, and how the actors played their parts. They didn't care about surprise endings."

"Didn't know thou likest Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare? Hate Shakespeare. But people back in those days, they had it right about the argument."

Quiet

He looked up at the cloudness night sky, stars speckled in the blackness. He heard no noise, save for his own breathing, the sound of which seemed an intrusion upon the stillness.

Traffic Light

The state route leading to the town branched off at Water Street, which lead to most of the residential sections; the state route continued past the branch to the commercial and government areas, as well as the schools. Traffic volume was rarely large enough at this branch to warrant a timed red-yellow-green traffic light, but a number of accidents twenty or so years ago provided evidence that STOP and CAUTION traffic signs (always difficult to pick up on snowy winter evenings) could not ensure safety. The town therefore installed a flashing light, colored yellow to warn incoming traffic from the state route, and red to alert traffic from Water Street to stop before entering the state route.

God Part 4

"I take it you do believe in God?" asked Bernie.

Billy smiled, looked down. "Well . . . I don't know, really. I hear what you mean about how silly the whole cosmic vending machine thing is. But -- well, this is going to sound kinda strange, but what the hell. I just have this feeling, that there's something out there, up there. I've felt that way since . . . remember back at the Moore School, at the end of recess when we'd all get in line to go back to class?"

"Yeah. They had the youngest ones, the third graders, line up against the wall. Fourth and fifth graders lined up along the edge of the basketball court, and try to pelt the third graders with snowballs or rocks when the teachers weren't looking."

"Right. Well one day I was leaning up against the brick wall, waiting to get into Miss Guthrie's class with everyone else, and the teachers were actually paying attention this day, that was right after Jimmy Jordan got that cut over his eye. Anyway, we're all lined up, and everyone's being quite because the teacher's aren't taking any guff that day, and all of a sudden, as I'm leaning against the wall, staring down at the ground -- I felt something. Literally, felt it. Some kind of existence, a being, something that was singular but part of everything at the same time, something I couldn't touch, or speak to, but -- there."

"Sounds spooky."

"No, it wasn't like that, wasn't scary, it wasn't like it was calling to me, it was just letting me know that it was -- there. It was a comforting feeling, made me feel that I wasn't alone in the world, no matter where I was. It was kinda cool, really.

"Then all of a sudden I heard Skinner call my name, and all the fourth graders were laughing at me, so I ran into school."

"So that's what made you believe in God?"

"Don't know about God. But I believe in something."

DJ

He knew a good idea when he saw one, and could be relied on to execute it efficiently, but he rarely came up with an original idea himself. He was like a successful radio disk jockey, able to retell, even improve jokes heard at a comedy club the prior weekend, but rarely coming up with his own material.

God Part 3

"Fair to say you don't believe in God?"

Bernie breathed loudly out his nostrils. "If you're asking if I believe in some kind of supernatural, all-powerful being who answers prayers, a cosmic vending machine? No, course not. I actually hope God doesn't exist, for God's sake instead of humanity's, because how would God feel about all these clowns doing all the crazy, evil stuff they do in the name of God?"

Sugar

Uncover the sugar bowl, insert the teaspoon, lift out. Pour into first cup, do not stir -- need to leave the spoon dry. Musn't add moisture into sugar bowl. One teaspoon, pour into second cup, a second. Stir first cup (decaf) then second (caffienated), the order preserving the integrity of both cups.

Residual

And even though the root cause of his anger was gone, and he knew he no longer had reason to be angry, the emotion stayed with him, not as strong, but still there, affecting his mood (snappish), his focus (inconsistent), his appetite (nonexistent). It felt similar to a hangover -- alcohol gone from the system, his body still recovering from its recent presence -- or, it seemed to him, more like the residual smell of turpentine on his hands, even after a thorough washing.

Trophies

He looked at the trophies on the shelf. For years they had served as pleasant reminders of his youthful accomplishments, convenient conversation starters (hey I didn't know. . . ). But he hadn't really noticed them in years, they had blended into the room furnishings like three dimensional wallpaper, and he wondered now what his motivation was for not placing them in storage years ago. Perhaps, he thought, he hoped they were still noticed by visitors, would still generate appreciation -- a realization which made his trophies now seem vain and self-serving.

God 2

"Ever been to church?" Billy asked.

Bernie shrugged. "My parents used to take my sister and I at Easter and Christmas to the Congo," he said, referencing the familiar nickname of the Congregational Church, "but that stopped a while ago, around the time my father started complaining about how the churches don't have to pay taxes. I always hated it -- music more than anything else, that awful organ, sounded like the person playing wished they were dead. And the smell -- you can tell most men never wear cologne in this town, because for some reason they think they need to wear it at church, and because they don't know what they're doing they always put too much on. It's like they feel they have to smell pious as well as look pious, and unless they can really smell their cologne they think they're not fulfilling some kind of religious obligation."

God

"Can Harry make it Sunday?" Billy asked.

Bernie frowned. "Nah. Says he's got some church thing he's going to."

"Ah," said Billy. "Harry's really into his church, isn't he?"

Bernie shifted in his bus seat, his vinyl jacket swishing against the green plastic. "Apparently."

"Sounds like you don't approve."

"Nah, it's not that. Just -- I don't see the point, or rather, I don't see what he sees when I look at a church."

"OK. What do you see?"

Bernie straightened against the stiff back of the seat. "I see -- a whole lot of pretentiousness. People putting on their nicest clothes, acting real nice to each other, just to make sure everyone sees how respectable they are. It's all a show."

"So you don't think they're there because they want to be there?"

"Oh, they want to be there. But not because of God, or religion or anything like that. It's all just a show."

Fingernails

He wanted to know the answer simply for the sake of having the answer, not really caring what that answer was, or how useful the information would be, or even if the answer was correct. His interest in the answer was similar to his interest in how often he clipped his fingernails, a thought which came to him each time he sat down with his nailclipper. Ten days, two weeks? He once thought of marking the date of his nail clipping on the calendar, but worried that someone would think of this as obsessive. Perhaps, he had thought, he could write a code for the clipping that only he would understand, but quickly dismissed that thought since it would prove his obsession. So while he never thought the effort to obtain the nail clipping frequency answer was worthwhile, he still wanted to know, if for no other reason than he didn't like coming up with a question that he couldn't answer.

Sleep

She was constantly busy, and the combination of early alarms and responsibilities at work and home left her exhausted by week's end. She found that her creative talents were particularly inhibited by Friday, could almost actually feel the creative parts of her brain trapped, suffocated by her mental exhaustion. Despite her father's warnings about the dangers of oversleeping, she found that the longer she slept on Saturday mornings, the more she was able to tap into, release, her trapped creativity.

Superstar

His presence moved the fencing team out of the sidelines, as he was not only an accomplished football and basketball player but also within two years one of the most accomplished fencers in the state. The fencing coach found him easy to train and spent extensive hours with his star pupil. Fencing appealed to him because it was all on him -- he didn't have to rely on teammates like he had to in other sports. He is the first child of a mechanic who had been high school quarterback, and a secretary at the mayor's office.

He placed second in epee at the state tournament his senior year, and went to the state university expecting to continue his success. However, he found it difficult to adjust to the higher level of competition not only in fencing but also in the classroom, and by winter of his freshman year has all but quit the fencing team and is in danger of flunking out. He returns to the high school team to "give a few pointers," but winds up bullying the team, including the current year's captain, until he is trounced by the coach.

Fencing Captain

A senior, she was the second-best fencer on the team the past two seasons, and is both excited and apprehensive about being the team leader. Her father is a lawyer, mother a dentist, her family one of the most respected in town. Her mother's family has been influential in town for many generations; her parents had met in college, and when her father came her to visit his girlfriend's parents for the first time he fell in love with the community. The captain is very ambivalent about her family's history -- she's proud of her family's accomplishments and altruism, but is uncomfortable with their arrogance.

Fencing coach

He was born to a Jewish family in Detroit, and was a good but unremarkable student and athlete in the public school system. He attended Wayne State University, where he majored in English and Education, and was a member of the renowned fencing team, where he was good enough to make the varsity team but not good enough to be the top fencer in any category. When a knee injury his junior year limited his fencing activity, he became a de facto assistant coach on the team. Upon graduation he earned an assistantship at a New England college, where he earned his Masters in Education and was an unpaid assistant fencing coach. He then taught at several high schools in New England before accepting his current position as honors English teacher and guidance counselor. Three years into that position, he received permission to pursue his dream -- starting a high school fencing club.

Stickers

As she walked through the front door, she noticed again the stickers attached to the inside glass. There were three stickers, each having the call letters and company logo for different radio stations. In her earliest memories of her uncle's home, from decades ago, those stickers had been prominent, so much so that she could not think of that home, or even her uncle, without recalling those call letters. All three radio stations had long ceased operations, and she was not sure whether the stickers remained for the sake of nostalgia -- memories of happier times for his uncle, before his wife had left him? -- or because they were glued on, not easily removable like the window static clings from more recent times.

Concrete

He came to his decisions carefully, only after much debate and deliberation. His mind ruminated on issues with the steady deliberation of a cement mixer, never stopping until a decision was made and then announced, poured out to the world, quickly becoming concrete, steadfast, never to be changed.

Door

The bottom of the door at the top of the staircase was dirtier than the rest of the door, which was the direct result of the door's function. The family liked to invest less money on energy for the upstairs bedrooms than the downstairs living areas, and to maintain the distinct climates between the two floors the staircase door was kept shut. The spring they installed to keep that door closed was strong, and when left to close on its own the door would slam swiftly and loudly, especially within the enclosed area at the top of the staircase. All the family members quickly learned to catch the door before it closed (new in-laws were quick to catch on to this as well), and when going down the stairs it became routine to stop the door from slamming shut by catching it with their left hand. While the middle to top of the door had remained clean, years of dirt and oil from the family's hands had left the bottom of the door with the brown, blotchy look of a door well-used.

Attention

He desired celebrity, but not the attention that came with it -- the knowledge that people should recognize him on the street, without having to actually go through the experience.

Career

He managed his career with the diligence and enthusiasm of someone caring for an ailing in-law.

Cousins

Their cousins lived in a rural community outside of town, not close enough to see during weekdays but close enough for regular visits on weekends and holidays. Although they lived in different worlds -- his family were merchants, the relatives farmers and lumbermen -- they enjoyed each other's company, although the rural cousins had two standing complaints whenever they came into town to stay overnight -- his family drank powdered milk, and the city water was terrible (a goldfish the cousins had brought with them one visit died immediately after its water was changed).

Change

As a boy he had seen a movie about a pickpocket, which left the impression that the world was filled with nimble-fingered sharks circling his left rear pocket. When he started carrying a wallet as a teenager, he decided to carry his wallet in his left front pocket, as he found it more comfortable to retrieve his wallet with his left hand. Accepting change from a cashier, he found, involved a more complex sequence of manual dexterity than he thought should be necessary -- he would accept coins and bills in his left (catching) hand, and insert the bills into his wallet with his pointer finger and thumb while clutching the coins with his other three fingers. Bills inserted, he would then put his wallet into his right front pocket while still clutching his coins awkwardly, sometimes dropping them. Wallet properly disposed, he would then bring his left arm across his body, and insert the coins into his right front pocket, the same pocket where he carried his keys. Change finally stored away, he would then retrieve his keys, sometimes dropping coins in the process.

Cry

He fell down to his knees, jeans crunching noisily in the wet snow. He could not let go of his anger, could not make himself ready to join the sea goddess. He would soon get up, walk back home, walk back to his life at school, walk into the uncertain future -- as angry and bitter as he always was. He cried low sobs of anger.

Anger

Wispy steam rose from his mouth into the frigid night air. He looked up at the faceless sea goddess. Part of him wanted to accept her offer, to leave this place where all he knew was pain and suffering. But . . . if he did leave, the cause for his indignation would be gone, and he would have no need to be angry. And anger, as bitter as it felt, was still the only thing he felt he truly possessed, was the thing that made him who he was, and while he didn't particularly like who he was, he was too proud to let go of his anger. Which meant he could not go with the sea goddess.

Beckon

And she came to him over the snow that covered the ice that covered the lake, at least he thought it was a she, the long curls of her hair he could not see her dark face. She called to him, beckoned, promised to take him where there was no pain, no cold, no loneliness.

Lake

His footsteps broke the icy surface of the snow, the cracks echoing sharply against the trees in the silent stillness. He walked slowly towards the moonlight bouncing in vivid whiteness off the frozen surface of the lake. Stumbling occasionally in the uneven footing, he eventually passed the woods and reached the edge of the lake. It was an artificial lake, born from a downstream hydroelectric dam that had been build decades earlier. The turbines were too far from where he stood now to be heard on most days, but in the clear crisp air of that evening he heard their low hum.

Suffer

Prior to her current job, Kathy had worked as a project manager for a software company, and was responsible for one of her firm's largest clients, an insurance company that had earned a household name through decades of television advertising. Kathy's client was replacing their computer systems with software purchased from her firm, and were exacting and at times exasperating in their demands.

"What happens if we enter the wrong data in this field?" they had once asked Kathy.

"The software would detect an error, and advise the user to make a correction," she replied.

"But the user could ignore the error, yes?" they asked.

"Well, yes," Kathy responded, "but the error would become obvious the first time they ran the Daily Revenue Report."

"But what will the report say?"

While she generally hated conference calls, at times like this Kathy did appreciate the free opportunity to roll her eyes. "The report will generate an astronomically high figure, and the validation subroutine will print a message on the report saying that a setup error has probably occurred." That message, she thought, should actually say something like Jesus Christ, will you check your goddam setup, dumbass?

"How high will the amount be?"

"I don't know. I've seen it in testing, and anyone who'd been working for your company longer than a week --"

"Yes, I'm sure, but how is that figure calculated? Is it based on a date range?"

"I don't know," Kathy replied, holding back a sigh.

"Is it a cumulative total, or some average?"

"I'm sorry, I really don't know."

Temporary silence. Kathy knew from experience this meant the client wasn't letting go, but rather catching their breath. "Well, can you find out?"

Temporary silence. Kathy wasn't catching her breath, but stopping herself from screaming. "Again, the user gets a warning when they enter an incorrect value in the setup, and, should the user choose to ignore this" -- Kathy silently added REALLY FREAKING OBVIOUS--"warning, the Daily Revenue Report will clearly show that something is wrong, and where the error was made."

Temporary silence. Oh God, Kathy thought. "We understand that," the client said in a slow, patronizing tone. "But that's not what we're asking. What we're asking is how the total shown on the Daily Revenue Report would be calculated if a user entered an invalid value during the setup."

"Again, I don't know --"

"And that's OK. So what we're asking now is that you find out. That isn't such an unreasonable request, is it?" Kathy hated the way the client ended each of their unreasonable requests with this rhetorical question, but hated even more that she couldn't answer this question honestly.

As the months turned to years on the client's project, Kathy had come to the realization that it was her charge to suffer fools gladly, and forbid them not to come unto her.

Backside

She was generally perceptive, but not entirely so, the type of person who is clever and coordinated enough to carry a long object -- a bench, for example -- through the front of a door without hitting the doorway, but would always forgot about the backside until she heard it bang against the doorway behind her.

Anger

"I don't want to direct my anger at you -- don't want you to feel threatened. But I don't want to push this anger to the side either, don't want to shut off this emotion. Anger is what fuels, drives me, it's the source of my energy, it's the reason I've been able to accomplish what I have so far in life. Get angry at people? No -- but never get angry? No, I'm not interested in an emotional lobotomy."

Rage

Rushing into the room, he grasped the door and felt a surge of energy, wanted to hurl the door behind him (slam!) but he knew that would draw a reaction and he didn't want any attention, wanted neither correction (for God's sake control yourself) nor comfort, whether sincere (would a hug help Daddy?) or politely placating (well at least it's Friday). And, while releasing that energy surge with a mighty goddam slam might have feel mighty goddam good just about then, he knew the relief would be short-lived, and would soon be followed by embarassment for his impotent outburst. He knew anyway that he didn't need to release that energy, because he knew it would soon dissipate -- but before it went away, he wanted to feel the anger that fueled his rage, not to enjoy it, but to acknowledge that it was there and should be there, he wanted to say that yes he was angry and yes he had a right to be angry. Just for a moment, he wanted to hold onto that anger, not have it dismissed with a platitude or banished by an assault on furniture. So instead of slamming the door, he closed it slowly, let the lock catch -- then turned into the room and, bending forward, silently screamed, mouth gaping, lips curled back, canines portruding.

Gallery

"You sound surprised," Jesse said.

"Not really," Sheila replied. "Look, we all suspected there was something going on, but it all seemed innocuous, so we just ignored it. Not ignored, really. More like -- you know that art gallery on Fifth Street?"

"Not really. I mean I know it's there -- "

"Yeah, anybody who lives west of here knows that place, because it's right on the way to work. And it's got that odd orange sign, so you notice it every time you drive by. But it's too far from work to walk there, and there's no good places for lunch nearby, so you think anyone here's been there? Probably not."

Jesse sneezed, excused himself. "I agree, but you mind helping me understand why this isn't a non sequitor?"

"Sorry. See, I've been meaning to say this since last week, after I decided on a whim to stop in at that art gallery on the way back from work."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it was Wednesday, I noticed the lights were on in the gallery, and since I didn't have any idea what I was going to do myself when I got home I decided to stop in. Turns out Wednesday's their late night. It was pretty neat -- contemporary, mostly paintings and sculptures, some abstract work but most of it you could look at and say, hey, that's a landscape, or an athlete. I've seen better galleries, whole lot worse -- wasn't really anything special about it, but I felt a whole lot better hanging out there for a half hour than I would have if I had gone home and wasted that time online. And while I was there, I was thinking, why hadn't I come here before? And the only answer I could give was, because I knew what to expect, and I didn't think it was worth the effort to find out if I was correct. So I went, and yeah, it was what I expected -- no surprises -- but it felt good to confirm something about my world. And this is where I come to the part about the Johnson contract. No, what we just found out wasn't surprising. But by confirming what we suspected, I feel more alert, aware. And now that we know that it's really not that big of a deal, we can  move on -- I can keep passing that gallery every day, without any nagging curiosity. And yes, we'll have to revisit this Johnson thing every once in a while now that we know about it, just like I'm sure to go back to that gallery every few months, to see the new exhibits. Surprised? My only surprise is how good I feel now that I know."

Love Songs

"No, I'm not a fan of love songs. They're so public -- any couple that thinks they're playing our song doesn't realize a thousand other couples think that song belongs to them. I love you so much, I don't want to cheapen it by borrowing words from some singer. I want to express my love for you in my own words, even though I struggle to find the words that match how I feel. I'm sorry I dissed your song -- that was wrong of me, selfish. But I didn't do it to make fun of you, to dismiss how you feel. That song can't express how much I love you -- that's what I was reacting to. But, how about I say that I'll be more respectful about your musical tastes from now on. Because your feelings, and your love, are more important to me than my opinions."

Language

Dorothy Parker claimed that she hated writing, but loved having written. For Stephen, though, the opposite held true. He enjoyed the act, the struggle, of writing, would at times work so furiously on a story or magazine article that he'd skip meals and appointments (sometimes knowingly, other times not). The most disappointing part of writing for him was reaching the end, whether it was a deadline or the realization that he could do no more to improve his work. For he would often feel that the words he composed had not fully realized his intention. "It's like buying a sweater that fits and looks nice," he once explained at a party, "but isn't exactly what you want to wear, so you never take it out of the closet. That's why I rarely read what I get published." He would use cooking analogies as well to explain his dissatisfaction. "The meals I make look and smell great, but the taste -- yes I'll eat the whole thing, and probably cook it again, but it just leaves me full, not satisfied, feeling like I need a tasty snack, something to read that has a little more zest. Don't know what I need -- add some spicy figurative language, let my exposition bake longer -- I just feel like language is my enemy, that I'm never able to express my thoughts, my feelings, completely."

The Wordy Shipmates

Just finished Sarah Vowell's The Wordy Shipmates, an analysis of the founding and early years (1630 to 1660) of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. I was hoping this book would provide a fresh perspective on the history I had learned (and quickly forgotten) during my middle school years in New England, and I was not disappointed. Vowell is an entertaining writer who is able to balance a clear respect for her subjects with a snarky, postmodern voice that never comes across as too satisfied with itself; she writes that much of her childhood knowledge of American colonial history came from watching "The Brady Bunch" and other television situation comedies, without feeling the need to amplify the inherent humor of her tale by winking or groaning at her reader. Her book is certainly not a comprehensive history; only a few dozen of the thousands of colonists are mentioned, and of those only a handful are discussed in depth. But the people Vowell does focus her attention on – compassionate yet authoritarian John Winthrop, loyal outsider Roger Williams, devout and defiant Anne Hutchinson – become fascinating and relevant figures. I'm tempted to say that Vowell portrays the Puritans neither as pious heroes nor narrow-minded barbarians, but in fact she portrays them as equally both, praising their devotion to learning and ideas on community and damning their medieval treatment of contrarian thinkers and Native Americans. The Wordy Shipmates won't replace middle school textbooks in New England (sorry kids), but it's a must-read for anyone interested in becoming re-acquainted with what they've forgotten about this crucial period in American history.

Crazy

Stan shook his head, hummed a disagreeing laugh as he drank his coffee. Setting the paper cup down, he cleared his throat, then "Jensen's not crazy. You know what crazy is?"

"Doing the same thing, but expecting the same result?" offered Warren.

"Nah. Close. That's the definition of insanity. Crazy's a little bit different, that's where you keep doing things that you are counter-productive, self-destructive even."

"Sounds pretty broad."

"Well yeah, everybody screws up, acts on impulse. That's being human. But most people, see, learn from their mistakes -- they're self-correcting. Crazy people, those are the ones who can't see that what they're doing isn't helping, that if they don't get their act together, correct the" -- Stan straightened himself in his chair, changing to a mock-professorial tone -- " 'error of their ways' " -- he lowered his arms back down to table, dropped the tone -- "they're heading for disaster."

"I would call Jensen's behavior self-destructive."

"Well, yeah, but look at it this way -- does he make the same mistake twice? And you gotta admit, he's doing pretty well for himself. Yeah, the guy's impulsive, dangerous even -- but he's self-correcting. That's why he's not crazy."

Fish

He realized he had been an all too-willing accomplice in his own imprisonment, accepting at face value the banalities of pop culture. And even as he realized how limited his knowledge was, knowing that there was so much he didn't know, he knew he was so thoroughly acclimated to his comfortable confinement that he could not break free. He felt like a fish looking past the water's surface to the clear blue sky, knowing that there was an entirely different world, an entirely different way of thinking and being, than what he was used to. But he could no more escape from his environment and enter that foreign world than a fish could breath out of water.

Love

"Yes, you were better to her than he ever was. But you didn't really love her, in fact you had no idea how to be in love with her. All you know about love is what you've learned from pop music lyrics. To you, love is a concept -- what she wants is somone to love her for real."

Shave

Michael smiled, grasping both sides of the wide podium and leaning forward until his arms formed upright right angles. "Have to begin with an apology," he began. "After showering in my hotel room this morning, I realized I had forgotten to pack my electric razor." He had actually realized this oversight shortly after leaving his house, but thought a little artistic license was appropriate. He stroked his chin to draw attention to his stubble. "I thought about going to the convenience store across the street to pick up a blade and shaving cream," (he had actually never really considered it, aside from considering it as part of his story) "but it's been twenty years since I last shaved with a blade, and back then, the results weren't pretty." (True on both points.) "Now in saying this, I fully realize that if I hadn't said anything, most of you probably wouldn't have noticed. However, you seem like a fairly perceptive audience, so there was a good chance that somebody would notice and start to wonder if I had a rough night last night. So, I had to make a decision -- did I want to take a chance that some of you would think I was a dirtbag, or lay it on the line like this and convince you all that I'm an airhead?" The line drew the casual, polite laughter he had been seeking.

Reading

He would be considered by anyone outside of professional academia a well-read person, and while he did enjoy reading he found the activity frustrating at times. He found it difficult to consistently remember what he had just read, many times reaching the end of a paragraph and realizing that while he had certainly scanned the letters that had come before, he could not recall the content. He would then scan back to the top of the paragraph and re-read, and in many cases he would remember the entire content of the paragraph by reading just a part of the first sentence.

Late

He was running late again, and the anxiety he felt was based not on the implications of his meeting, but rather was caused by his own insecurity.

Smart Ass

The two roommates shared an aversion to smart asses, but for different reasons. Raj saw smart ass behavior as a cover for ineptitude and indifference. "Smart asses act like they do because they know they have nothing, know nothing. They know if they address an issue with any seriousness, they'll be exposed immediately. They conflate snark with sophistication, cynicism with intelligence. I've got no time for them, because they have nothing to offer me." Clem had no respect for smart-ass behavior either, but perhaps because he lacked Raj's self-confidence he was clearly more deferential to smart-asses. Rather than ignore smart-asses as did Raj, Clem would try to match their seeming intelligence -- and, when he failed as he often did, retreated back in silence, not out of respect but temerity.

Speaking

While he had grown fairly comfortable as a public speaker over the years -- no more sweaty armpits, stammering mostly gone -- he still had a habit of talking too much, especially when he wasn't entirely confident of what he was speaking. When nervous, his subconscious would search his memory for any supporting detail, argument, or analogy that might possibly help. This would lead him at times to begin a statement and realize, half-way through, that this statement wasn't actually going to help at all, but would rather hurt his presentation. He had once given a presentation on a new software module for generating payroll, and boasted about how easy it was to use -- so easy, in fact, that "if you had someone working for you who probably shouldn't have been hired in the first place" -- at this point he knew he had made a major blunder, but there was no going back now, he couldn't leave the statement just hanging there, he had to find the most graceful way to complete this statement and move on -- "you can finally get some productivity out of them," at which point he realized the best possible scenario was that his audience would forget his entire presentation.

Coat Room

John's mother pointed, without looking, in the direction of a room down the hall, where most of the children had already gathered. He took off his jacket, melted-snow heavy, and threw it in a corner already piled chest-high with jackets. The room was warm and damp, and the heavily smell of running noses, wet hair and unwashed skin.

Daughter

As the sounds of her aching sobs cascaded down from the stairs, he suddenly realized why he had been so short with her, and why he was always so less patient with her than he was with her siblings. She was the oldest, the first child, the one whose arrival made him a father, a person far different than he had been in his younger years, which he now looked upon jealously. He regretted losing the freedom he imagined himself enjoying in those years (although truth be told he was at times far more lonely and anxious then than he ever was now), and he was disappointed with himself for squandering his youthful opportunities. It was upon Rachel, the first child, the one whose arrival so clearly marked the boundary between his former and current life, that he projected his disappointment.

Christmas

Miriam laughed, shaking her head. "Did I feel left out as a kid because my family didn't celebrate Christmas? Are you kidding -- I was relieved to not be caught up in all the nonsense the other kids were so enamored with! No present they could possibly get could live up to the anticipation they built up. No, if anything, I always felt annoyed around Christmas. Sure, there's some good stuff -- love the music, even volunteered to sing at some Christmas pageants -- yeah, that was me, Miriam the Caroling Jew. Jill, from across the street, her family actually knew how to decorate -- always looked forward to visiting Jill in December, they'd have a great tree. But every other house on the street, oh those godawful inflatable Santas and snowmen -- and those damned light-up mechanical deer -- and yeah, some of the music is great, but a lot of it is terrible, especially the new stuff, overwrought Christmas CDs put out by whoever was this year's Top 40 singers."

The Word Game, Part 2

Stimulated by this discovery, he looked in his mind to the letters again. SPEED. Double E, another set of fives, D makes four, fghij, that's ten, klmno fifteen, that makes P sixteen, qrs gets to nineteen. A four, two fives, 16, 19 -- is there an equation somewhere? 14, no help there, 16 and 4 makes 20 -- divide the fives to get 1, subtract, there's the equation!

Fully engaged now, he turned his attention to LIMIT. Twelve, two nines yes, 13, 20. Divide the nines to get 1, that worked last time. Twenty-five, still five off -- and there's five letters in the word! Multiply by 1, subtract five, solved!

Of course, his solution for LIMIT forced him to revisit his SPEED equation. Need to work in the five for the letters. Now it's three fives, the four, 16, 19. Divide the four into 16, get the four back. Now what? Can get to 20 by multiplying the four and one of the fives -- then divide the remaining two fives, 20 minus 1 is, yes, 19!

"What's that?" his mother asked. He turned quickly to his mother in surprise, and only then realized that yes had been said, or more accurately exclaimed, aloud.

The Word Game, Part 1

His parents took him frequently on long car trips for family holidays and vacations. Reading in the car made him naseuous, so he spent a good deal of time desperately looking out the window for something to distract him from the tedium of the drive. His mother had suggested that he try to observe something new about commonplace objects, so one day he decided to see what he could get out of road signs. SPEED LIMIT 55. Nothing distinctive about the size or shape of the sign, but it did have that double number. And, he realized, that was also the number of letters in both words -- four fives. A winning poker hand!

Types of Wireless Networks

Wireless networking equipment is identified with a cryptic set of alphanumeric characters, with 802.11n being the identifier for the current generation of equipment.  While the numbers that make up these identifiers are essentially meaningless (802 refers to February 1980, the month of the first committee meeting for establishing network engineering standards, while 11 is the number given to the 802 subcommittee for wireless networking), the concluding lower-case character is significant, especially if you have a wireless network that contains equipment from different standards -- 802.11a, 802.11b, 802.11g, and 802.11n. Alphabetic progression is a reliable, but not foolproof, indicator of technical advancement; 11a is actually faster than 11b. Understanding how these standards developed can help us see how wireless networking will evolve in the future.

Eating

He was prone to suffering anxiety attacks over responsibilities both minor and major, and during these attacks he found that he didn't like to eat, or rather that he didn't like the satisfaction that came with eating. He would eat only enough to calm the roiling protest of his stomach, and he found this act of self-denial engendered an internal reaction within his body. He felt more alert, active, perceptive when he ate lightly; his body perceived the reduction in food as a threat to its existence, and it responded by actively engaging nerves that were typically responsible for only reflexive actions such as breathing and digestion.

Effort

He knew that this feeling would pass, as it always did, and he'd look back on this time and laugh at his paranoia. But he desperately wanted to hold on to this feeling, as insane as he knew it was, and even knowing there was no way he could maintain the feeling. It was insanity, but it was his -- and at the moment, he preferred to live in misery having something, even something as nauseating as insanity, than live in the world that others accepted, and which he had nothing.

Finger

His fingers were preternaturally long and thin; during a peer evaluation of a training lecture he had given, a fellow student had commented that when he pointed with his index finger, he looked like a skeletal Angel of Death. That comment left him self-conscious about pointing, and he quickly came up with an alternative. Rather than extending his index finger fully, he would bend the finger at the joint, using just the proximal phalanx bone when pointing. He had immediately found this motion awkward, but when he positioned his thumb tight against the phalanx, he realized he had hit upon the position he had been seeking. That motion of his, pointing to students with his thumb tucked into the middle of his bent index finger, had become his signature gesture, imitated by students both in mocking contempt and fond admiration. He was especially pleased when students would return for a visit and greet him first with his signature half-point.

Road

The road to his home, like most residential roads in this rural region, was little more than a thin sheet of asphalt. Motorists could not drive more than twenty feet without having to avoid some deep crack or crevice -- not a pothole really, but more of an implosion of the gravel and dirt underneath. Neither edge had a curb, the crumbling asphalt eventually giving way to gravel and, a few inches further, a natural gutter filled with decaying leaves. Remnants of the white and yellow traffic paint were still distinguishable, in most places anyway.

Gratitude

"I have . . . always been more concerned more with the things that I want, rather than those things that are already mine. And yes, I even think of your love for me as something I possess -- my having your love. I apologize for my self-centeredness, and hope you can accept not only my love, but my gratitude, which I feel so deeply, for all that you have given me."

Sunday

He would spend a good deal of his Fridays planning his labor and lesisure for the weekend, and it was this planning that allowed him to feel that he was getting the most of his free time. But the price of this self-satisfaction was a sense of anxiety he felt every Sunday evening, an anxiety based on the feeling that for all his accomplishments, he really wasn't getting anywhere, that his alarm would ring at the same time on Monday morning, that he would leave within the same 15 minute window he always left, that his greatest challenge at work would continue to be maintaining or at least faking interest in his assignments until he eventually left within his usual 15 minute window to return home, where, while significantly more interesting than his work life, presented mostly the same routine domestic challenges each evening. It was knowing that his wonderful weekends were merely an interlude to the comforting banality of his life that led to his anxiety on Sunday evenings.

Balloon

Ever since the start of his professional career he had imagined himself as the Man in the Field in the popular Internet joke about the Man in the Balloon. "You're in a balloon," he imagined himself replying when Balloon Man, having been blown off course in a strong wind and now lowering himself into an unfamiliar field, asked where he was now. It was a satire of business communication, with Balloon Man representing clueless management and Field Man representing the informed but valueless information provided by staff. He had seen printed emails with some form of this tale posted on several cubicle walls over the years, and at one point had even been placed in that position of honor within his own corporate-sponsored domain. Yet, as his years of experienced led him to positions of greater influence in the corporate world, he realized that he was becoming more like Balloon Man, more often seeking quick answers from his colleagues rather than finding answers on his own.

The Hall

The tall, narrow windows of the hall contained stained glass in parts, yet not with any consistent pattern -- perhaps there had been more in earlier years, but had been replaced as they broke with less expensive clear glass. Sunlight coming through the combined stained and clear glass produced the colors of an aquarium in the hall.

2012 Presidential Campaign, Pt. 2

Mentioned my prediction (which is actually more of a wish than a prognostication) of a 2012 presidential campaign between Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin last night to a friend.

"You really think Obama's going to lose the nomination?" he said incredulously. I repeated my assertion that if unemployment is over 9% then Obama is very vulnerable, because Americans vote with their pocketbooks.

My friend replied that there have been only two sustained primary challenges to a sitting president in our lifetimes -- Ted Kennedy against Jimmy Carter in '80, and Ronald Reagan against Gerald Ford four years before that. Not only did both of those challenges fail, but the sitting president lost the general election both times.

What would this mean if Clinton campaigned against Obama in two years? Does a strong challenge in the primary expose the weaknesses of the incumbent president, as my friend suggested?

I don't think comparisons to the bicentennial election are justified -- it was an odd election cycle, with the sitting president barely in office more than 2 years and having only been named president, and before that vice president, due to resignation; Ford was also new to presidential campaigning, and, having recently pardoned Nixon, could not promote himself as an outsider ready to shake up the Washington status quo.

However, a case could be made that 2012 is looking a lot like 1980. The economy is perhaps even weaker now than it was 32 years ago, and should our current military missions in Iraq and Afghanistan continue to sink deeper into quagmire, we could be looking at a problem similar to the hostage crisis in Iran. A well-intentioned president burdened with a stagnant economy and a weak international reputation . . . would a strong primary challenge expose Obama's shortcomings and leave him defenseless against a strong Republican candidate?

I think that's entirely possible, but I also think there's a strong possibility that we'll see something happen in 2012 that happened in neither '76 or '80 -- a successful primary challenge to the incumbent president. Clinton has a clear advantage over Reagan or Kennedy, as she has primary campaign experience at the national level (remember, she nearly won the nomination in '08, and actually earned more popular votes than Obama), with Reagan only having run a limited campaign in '68 and Kennedy never running at the national level. Clinton also has the ability to campaign both as an insider (a very involved First Lady, eight-year Senator, and current Secretary of State) and outsider (potentially first female President, and the quintessential anti-Obama/anti-incumbent candidate).

I'm not saying I prefer Clinton to Obama, but unless Obama's fortunes change for the better (and in the coming year a lot can certainly happen) I see a Clinton primary challenge as a strong possibility, with a high probability of success. And should that come to pass, all it would take would be for Sarah Palin to ask for the Republican nomination (there'd be no need for a primary campaign) to result in perhaps the most entertaining presidential campaign in the history of this country.

Descent

He could feel the dark gloom of depression descending upon him, and while the rational side of him, still strong but no longer dominant, implored him to do whatever it took to stop going down the road he was on, he embraced the self-destructive darkness that was so familiar to him.

Cliches

The comfort of timeworn phrases was typically more appealing to him than the risk of saying something original.

Presidential Election 2012

Living in the Chicago media market for 21 years taught me that politics was best appreciated as a spectator sport. In that vein, here is my hope that our next presidential election in the U.S. be contested by two of the most intriguing politicians of our generation.

I predict, encourage, DEMAND that Hilary Clinton face Sarah Palin in 2012.

Given the current national political outlook, it's not such a far-fetched idea. The few credible Republican potential candidates are either tainted with the scent of yesterday's newsprint (Gingrich, Romney) or have yet to garner any significant national momentum (Pawlenty et al) -- none have the star power that Palin possesses. On the Democratic side, President Obama's chances for re-election hinge upon one of the absolute rules of U.S. presidential elections, which is that Americans vote with their wallets. If the unemployment rate is still over 9% by February 2012, Obama will be very vulnerable to a primary challenger as savvy as Clinton.

A lot can happen in the next year and a half, so all I have to offer for now is a bunch of wishful thinking. But imagine how thoroughly entertaining a Clinto-Palin contest would be in 2012! It may not be good for the country, but it would make great television.

The Future Memoir

Two years before his high school graduation, he was already planning on writing a one-act play which would be based on his 10-year class reunion. The protagonist would be single, as the playwright expected himself to be in a dozen years, and the central struggle of the play, the drama that would captivate audiences and draw praise from envious critics (!), would be the protagonist's triumph over his simmering hostility towards his classmates. He was challenged, though, to come up with an appropriate title -- something that was neither melodramatic nor ostentatious. Yes, the title was a problem.

He imagined that he was evaluated not on the basis of his talents, but rather on his deficiencies -- a near perfect projection of his own anxiety and frustration.

Conversations

Over the many years of their marriage, each had subconsciously learned and adapted to the other's converstational patterns. He had learned to never answer her yes/no questions immediately - "Are you ready to go yet?" -- as she would often follow that question with its opposite -- "Or do you need a few minutes?"

Mornings

He noticed that he was often monosyllabic in the morning, conversing in terse grunts which met the minimum requirements of polite society. Even "hello" was beyond his linguistic powers before 10 AM  -- a strained "hi" was all he could muster. Applying this adjective to himself seemed particularly ironic, seeing as monosyllabic was a particularly polysyllabic word.