Instrument of Destruction!

I've heard it said that a friend is someone who will help you move. I'm here to tell you that isn't quite true - a real friend is someone who will help you move a piano! I'm fortunate indeed to have a slew of friends who are not only willing to give up a chunk of their weekend to help me with a task that is practically a standard in comedy sketches (although this one is impressive!) involving pulley systems and steep hills, but told me repeatedly that it was "no problem."

In true Discount Knight fashion, the piano was a find in and of itself - some folks were moving and couldn't take the solidly-built 1901 upright with them. If I could move it, I could have it. This was too good for pass up, although it's been many a year since I so much as played "Chopsticks."

Now, moving a piano is no small task. It's a full-size upright and they built things to last back in 1901. As Victorian Marxist pointed out, "I don't know what sort of wood this thing is made of, but it ain't balsa!" The piano also has a cast iron (or brass, maybe??) frame to hold the strings in place. In short, it was a job of work and did I mention there were stairs involved? But my crew - Stacked Librarian, FryDaddy, Victorian Marxist, Binary Biker, and BeanCounter worked with good cheer and solid horse sense and we now all have a story to tell. (And no smashed fingers, toes, or other body parts!)

I should go practice my scales now. I better know how to plink out something other than "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" by the time the holidays roll around!

Seriously - don't try to go through life alone, even if you're not moving a piano.

Changing Weather & Shifting Tides

It's been a while since I've posted - that wasn't on purpose; things just got a mite cattywampus around the Nest. Since last we chatted, summer has ended and autumn has begun. It's one of my favorite times of the year - cool enough that it's prudent for you to you dig out a quilt, but the air warms up to the point that short sleeves are still a good idea by mid-afternoon. The leaves haven't really started to change here just yet, but there's the occasional crimson harbinger of fall on the sidewalk.

Even Spooky's getting ready for the shift. She enjoys the crisper weather - she always says it reminds her of pleasant times on the north face of K2, but I know she's making that up - her ascent was up the west face, not matter what she tries to tell you.

Seriously, I adore fall. There's the smell of wood smoke in the air as people christen their fireplaces for the season, pumpkins and gourds are everywhere you go, cinnamon spice candles suddenly replace citrus ones, and classes have settled into a rhythm of sorts. It's also an election time in the midst of a lean economic year, which can bring out all manner of cranks and kooks. (In my opinion, our Founding Fathers were very wise in promoting the idea of a secret ballot.) Just how much of a geek-sign is it that I not only enjoy watching presidential (and VP) debates, but excitedly make popcorn for the occasion? Yeah, that's what I was afraid of. Well, it's my TV (and my popcorn), so I suppose that makes it all right.

I'll steer clear of making this overtly partisan, but I've picked my horse for this race and you can rest assured that I'll be at the $2 window when the time rolls around. In my town, election results from the local precincts are posted throughout the night after the polls close - a gaggle of cold-defying wonks clad in wool coats (and armed with Thermoses and webbed aluminum lawn chairs for "comfort") gather at the local fire station to watch the numbers go up. I guess it's our version of the smoke-filled room. (Hey, waitaminnit - what's in that Thermos, Jim Bob?)

Go vote! I don't care for who (well, I do, but that's another story), but a big chunk of the world's population would ride two days on muleback for the opportunity that over half of us can't be bothered with. Exercise your Constitutional rights! No one likes a flabby voter!

In the Middle

Lately, I've been having an inordinate number of "those days" - to the point that it's more like one of "those weeks." And I'm fearful that it's on the verge of becoming one of "those semesters." Seriously, it's been rough lately and my workdays are not exactly stretching out before me like a glittering land of promise.

So I get a fresh cup of coffee and try to shake it off.

You see, things will fool you. And if you're not careful, you'll start thinking that what you're seeing - the gritty side of things - is the way things actually are. You forget to notice the pearls and begin to think that the headlines of doom, gloom, despair, and such-like are all there is. (Oh, no, rain of toads!!) Nothing in that is to be construed as meaning that there is no grit. Of course there is, and it's nasty; all I mean is that it's not all there is.

For instance, there's the book I just finished reading - Stormy Weather by Carl Hiaasen, if you're interested. Funny, passionate about saving what's left of South Florida, and unforgettable characters. There's the fact that I realized that Jimmy Buffett has a song for nearly every mood and maybe I should dig those out. There's the fact that the autumnal equinox is just around the corner - a day of rare equilibrium when the Earth is literally balanced in the middle of light and dark. And there's the fact that I found a recipe for "fidget pie" that I'm going to try, using equinox as an excuse. Maybe it'll get the "fidgets" out of my own system and let me move into the last part of this year with my head on a little straighter.

Or maybe I'm just bellying up to some strange sort of celestial raw bar that Douglas Adams could appreciate. Could go either way - I'll let you know.

"Perfect" Songs

One of my favorite songs is R.E.M.'s "Nightswimming." A somewhat melancholy look backwards, the song includes the line "September's coming soon" which I've always seen as a lonesome statement of life's sands running swiftly towards - well, towards something that isn't quite certain.

So I started thinking. "Nightswimming" is a song I enjoy a good bit (in a certain mood, anyway), but it's not what I consider a "perfect" song. (Notice the quotation marks. I cheerfully accept that this is about to be a wildly subjective post.) I have a hard time explaining what makes a "perfect" song for me, but I think I've finally come up with a few criteria. Keep in mind that we're discussing perfection within the context of rock 'n' roll songs - I loves me a good piano nocturne, but that's off-limits for this discussion.

A "perfect" rock 'n' roll song must do the following, according the the Arbitrary Rules of Mockingbird:

• Tell a story. Gotta love the narrative. The more universal, the better, but I'm a sucker for lyrics.
• The story must be told from the perspective of looking backwards with knowledge gained over time.
• Have a "hummable" hook - it's even better if it makes you want to belt out the lyrics.
• Clearly capture a mood, time, season, etc.
• Do the whole thing in under five minutes.

As you might imagine, I've found very few "perfect" songs. As is true of all art, most popular music is trash. A small percentage is good, a smaller slice of the pie is memorable, and a tiny sliver of the pie is transcendent. It's hard to find songs that fit that sliver, especially with my rules. As an example, the Rolling Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want" is fantastic, but I have to admit that it doesn't have the "looking backwards" part. Bob Seger's "Night Moves" fits my list, but it officially clocks in at 5:25. We won't even discuss Billy Joel's opus "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant."

So what should I add to my playlist? Are my criteria just random and wacky? What works for you?

Was Greta Garbo Right?

I'm being facetious. Greta Garbo never said she wanted to be alone, you know. She actually said she wanted to be left alone, which in these days of whirl and bustle makes a world of sense.

I'm in the midst of reading Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea right now. It's a slim little book and should have been a quick read, but I've found myself lingering over this book of near-meditations. In part, I think that's due to the subject matter of the book. Although first published fifty-some years ago, the author's musings on the results of an ever-increasing whirl of life still seem nearly painfully relevant to me today. However, I think there's another reason I'm savoring this book like a fine chocolate mousse.

This is my grandmother's copy of the book, complete with her pencil underlinings. I'm learning a lot about the reader of the book, due to those markings. What bits struck my grandmother as worthy of marking? Is this where I get my habit of dog-earing and marking my favorite passages in my favorite books? I don't know, but I'm having great fun considering the possibilities.

At any rate, time alone is a precious commodity. Lindbergh notes that, as a society, we are nearly suspicious of anyone who wants to be alone, although we'll accept almost any other excuse. But if we are meant to give to our society, it stands to logical reason that we must refuel ourselves in order to continue. She mentions a term she ran across while reading William James, who is generally considered to be the father of the self-help movement. The term is "Zerrissenheit" which translates into "torn-to-pieces-hood." Surely that is a state of being that is best avoided.

So in the midst of classes, appointments, and obligations galore, I'm off to find a quiet place, hopefully near a sunbeam slanting through the blinds. Don't worry if I don't answer the phone; I'll be back. In fact, why don't you leave a message and find your own sunbeam? I'm sure there's one close by.

Keep Your Friends Close

. . . and your enemies closer, the adage goes. An axiom that has special poignance for the people of Georgia these days. (The one that's a country, not the Bigfoot hunting grounds one.)

It's always shocking to come face-to-face with the reality of how much can change in just a few days. Ten days ago, most Americans couldn't have found Georgia on a map (the country, but it's possible that statement extends to the Bigfoot hunting grounds one as well). Now we've seen footage reminding us in very clear terms that the Russian bear is back - if, indeed, he ever really went away. I'm not going to get geopolitical here; better minds than mine are working on the snarl of issues raised by breakaway provinces, Russian passports, and tanks rumbling into cities. Rather, I started thinking about the concept of quick changes.

In the theatre, "quick changes" are just what it sounds like - rapid transformations, usually of costumes. The actor exits the stage and voila! re-enters in a completely new outfit, delighting the audience who gets to marvel at the precision it takes to smoothly accomplish a quick change. In life, it's messier. Maybe I just need a better dresser.

Sorry, I digress.

We all have moments in our lives that we can point to and say, "That was me before; then that happened and that's me now." These are the "quick changes" I have in mind. Sometimes, it's something awful - the death of a close friend before his time or the moment where you must admit that the center of the marriage can no longer hold. And we often use the "awful" as a yardstick in our lives. But just as often, the yardstick is something beautiful; we just don't usually notice - a young child hands you a chalk drawing, insisting that it was made just for you or you catch yourself humming tunelessly one morning as you realize that, sometime during the night, fiery passion transformed into something much deeper and solid.

I've spent too much time being a spectator in my own life - that sad truth may have something to do with the way I currently look at the world. About a week ago, a group of friends gathered at the always-hospitable home of Stacked Librarian to watch the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. Turns out part of the ceremonies were faked, but the warm glow of good friends sharing a meal and oohing and aahing over human accomplishments (did you see those drummers?) was real. Victorian Marxist and FryDaddy engaged in deep conversation over the writings of Chairman Mao while Barefoot and I rolled our eyes and ate more of Stacked's delicious Chinese-inspired food, which all of us had helped prepare.

Life spins on a dime, people. So hold hands when you can and keep your friends close. You never know when you're going to need them.

(That's one reason I give them fake names in the blog! Wink!)

Oxygen Masks and High Tide

Well, the school year is once again knocking at my door. Syllabi and related materials need to be copied and neatly stacked for students and I need to prepare my opening day lectures.

Sigh.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I truly enjoy teaching and it's been a good summer. Still, I'm grabbing a vacation before everything academic re-commences. After witnessing the opening ceremonies for the Olympics on Friday, it's off to the beach with me for some much-needed down time. While not truly packed yet, I have my beach towel folded - Douglas Adams taught me to always know where my towel is - and a stack of reading material (ranging from months-old magazines I haven't had a chance to read to throwaway novels to Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea) ready to go.

You might think that a vacation isn't really warranted in my profession - after all, I'm a professional educator; don't we get summers off?

Oh, naive reader. That's just so cute! No, really - that's adorable. Have a lemon drop.

The truth is that I'm what's known as a "twelve-monther." Therefore, I teach during the summer session as well as the traditional fall and spring semesters. So summer off? Not so much, as Buffy might say.

What it does mean is that it is crucial for me to know when I need to stop and put on my oxygen mask. A friend gave me this image a few years back, and I just love it. If you've ever flown and listened to the flight attendant's spiel about all things safety-related, you will remember that a standard part of the talk is a bit about sudden decompression in the cabin. After telling you that you will hardly ever need to know this, the attendant reminds you how to put on the mask and then says something along the lines of "If you are traveling with a small child or someone in need of assistance, put your own mask on first, then assist the other person." (Emphasis mine, by the way.) In other words, you can't help anyone else if you can't breathe. The lesson here is that sometimes you have to just stop and breathe for yourself before you can go on to help someone else.

So I'm off to the beach to breathe for a few days. See you soon and I'll try to bring you a shell or two.