Mr. Wise
For most of us there are only a few people in our lives who make an indeleble impression as we wend our way through life's slalom course. There are many ways a person can be influential. Perhaps they were paternal, avuncular, carefree, funny, focused, philosophical, or just attentive to you. The stickiest characters are the ones who are quirky.
I worked with Bob Wise at Ingersoll Rand. He was a Project Manager and I was a Project Engineer. We worked on a job together for the big contruction company CF Braun. I had only worked with one other PM before and he could not have been more different than Bob.
A couple of things about Bob Wise.
He flaunted organizational skills with multicolored pens, Gantt charts, and liner notes. Papers on his desk were always stacked in perfect tiers, the hand-made titles revealed just so. His array of Flair pens were fanned out in the corner, ready to do his bidding. While he talked on the phone arrows swept from one side of the page to the other. Words got double and triple underlines.
Bob's handwriting was beautiful to look at and almost completely illegible.
He combined a masterery of sarcasm with a readily-accessible bag of quips. During his incessant complaints about the customer he would say in his nasily California drawl, something like These guys don't need Preparation-H, they're perfect assholes! or These guys wouldn't know quality control from venereal disease!
He'd be the first guy to laugh at your joke. Also the first guy to cut you balls off in a meeting. He did it to me once. Maybe that's why he's unforgettable.
Hey, I just said he was memorable, not likeable.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Thursday, May 13, 2004
A Self-Reflection Emergency (SRE)
I have impulsively pulled off the road this morning with a need to write. This is not a matter of literary inspiration but more like a journal-writing itch. It is such a beautiful morning. The crisp in the air is offset by the warm sun on my back while I hunch over this picnic table and it looks like a splendid day ahead.
I was queued up at the traffic light with all the other commuters, my bullet pointed toward The Workplace. I just had to break ranks.
There is a common theme emerging from different fronts: It's noise and habit that are killing us.
Maybe I could find these...
Spontaneity, Inspiration, Reflection, Communication, Avocation, Local Color, Appreciation, Sensitivity, Insight, Harmony, Facility, Synchronicity, Peace
... if I could avoid these...
Noise, Routine, Guilt, Excessive Responsibility, Functionality
I've been carrying around the name of a therapist for weeks, waiting for the right moment to call. When I have a rare inclination to think about it, I usually come to a quick conclusion that counseling has no place in a stable life.
But I've been thinking about therapy in another way lately. I imagine our first encounter when I tell her that I'm not here to overcome debilitating depression or panic disorder. I'm here to talk outside the box. Where else could I do that and expect someone's undivided attention and an occasional reaction? I need to hear myself think so that I can clear up who I am and what I value. I want to dispense with unnecessary weight (in every sense), and find resonance, titillation, and comfort again. But before I sign up I think there is some homework to do...
2 Questions
1. What's the problem?
2. What do you want?
First let's dispense with the obvious irony. Looking from the outside, how could a guy like me have a problem? I live in a nice house in a wealthy neighborhood. I am incredibly lucky to have work that has low stress, high income, and tremendous flexibility (shit, now my secret is out). I am reasonably healthy and look decent for my age. I have two wonderful kids that I was able to rescue from dire prospects. I am considered intelligent, creative, and funny.
Bring scope down to ground level
Increase magnitude..
A typical day opens with a few preset challenges. An appointment or two and some office tasks to complete. I do this work in my sleep (and it shows!). I try to nestle into the office but it never feels that good. On occasion there's a block of time in the day that I could apply to any number of things. Working on my web projects, getting exercise, doing something musical. I am rarely comfortable with my choice, usually because of guilt. My house is no longer my home. If the kids are home I feel too guilty to show up and then leave. Terry is stressed so there's even more guilt (although all offers to help are rejected). And so several times a week I find myself lost. And it is during these times that a strange disconnection between me and my own life is revealed. I dwell on the activities that were natural extensions of my identity (writing/playing music, walking in the woods, journal writing) that have all but disappeared without being replaced by anything as satisfying.
In these off-putting moments, I sometimes I'll go into a restaurant around 3:00 in the afternoon. Places are always empty then so you can get a big booth to yourself and have reasonable peace. I'll order a glass of wine with my lunch, open my laptop and have a pleasant hour noodling. Feels pretty good at the time but am I escaping or is that notion based on guilt? Is this guilt something I manufactured?
I have impulsively pulled off the road this morning with a need to write. This is not a matter of literary inspiration but more like a journal-writing itch. It is such a beautiful morning. The crisp in the air is offset by the warm sun on my back while I hunch over this picnic table and it looks like a splendid day ahead.
I was queued up at the traffic light with all the other commuters, my bullet pointed toward The Workplace. I just had to break ranks.
There is a common theme emerging from different fronts: It's noise and habit that are killing us.
Maybe I could find these...
Spontaneity, Inspiration, Reflection, Communication, Avocation, Local Color, Appreciation, Sensitivity, Insight, Harmony, Facility, Synchronicity, Peace
... if I could avoid these...
Noise, Routine, Guilt, Excessive Responsibility, Functionality
I've been carrying around the name of a therapist for weeks, waiting for the right moment to call. When I have a rare inclination to think about it, I usually come to a quick conclusion that counseling has no place in a stable life.
But I've been thinking about therapy in another way lately. I imagine our first encounter when I tell her that I'm not here to overcome debilitating depression or panic disorder. I'm here to talk outside the box. Where else could I do that and expect someone's undivided attention and an occasional reaction? I need to hear myself think so that I can clear up who I am and what I value. I want to dispense with unnecessary weight (in every sense), and find resonance, titillation, and comfort again. But before I sign up I think there is some homework to do...
2 Questions
1. What's the problem?
2. What do you want?
First let's dispense with the obvious irony. Looking from the outside, how could a guy like me have a problem? I live in a nice house in a wealthy neighborhood. I am incredibly lucky to have work that has low stress, high income, and tremendous flexibility (shit, now my secret is out). I am reasonably healthy and look decent for my age. I have two wonderful kids that I was able to rescue from dire prospects. I am considered intelligent, creative, and funny.
Bring scope down to ground level
Increase magnitude..
A typical day opens with a few preset challenges. An appointment or two and some office tasks to complete. I do this work in my sleep (and it shows!). I try to nestle into the office but it never feels that good. On occasion there's a block of time in the day that I could apply to any number of things. Working on my web projects, getting exercise, doing something musical. I am rarely comfortable with my choice, usually because of guilt. My house is no longer my home. If the kids are home I feel too guilty to show up and then leave. Terry is stressed so there's even more guilt (although all offers to help are rejected). And so several times a week I find myself lost. And it is during these times that a strange disconnection between me and my own life is revealed. I dwell on the activities that were natural extensions of my identity (writing/playing music, walking in the woods, journal writing) that have all but disappeared without being replaced by anything as satisfying.
In these off-putting moments, I sometimes I'll go into a restaurant around 3:00 in the afternoon. Places are always empty then so you can get a big booth to yourself and have reasonable peace. I'll order a glass of wine with my lunch, open my laptop and have a pleasant hour noodling. Feels pretty good at the time but am I escaping or is that notion based on guilt? Is this guilt something I manufactured?
Thursday, April 29, 2004
6 months
It was six months ago today that we walked out of the orphanage in Taldom with these two kids. They are doing extraordinarily well. Language, behavior, attachment...all headed in the right direction. They are growing in every sense of the word. The Best of all, we all love each other.
But here's what's hard from the parent's perspective. This has been a true odyssey. The two trips to Russia. The endless trips between Moscow and Taldom. The smell of the orphanage. The scene in the courtroom. A week in a Moscow hotel room with one bed. Speaking mostly Russian for two months. Some haunting memories of kids left behind. All of that forms a memory that is precious, painful, movie-perfect, and distinctive. Our kids are succeeding. They are blending quickly into the American landscape. It's what we want for them. But the cost is that their unique route to this reality will soon be lost to all onlookers. Not only that, but the special roles we've had to play in helping with their transition will soon be unnecessary. We will simply have to be good parents like everyone else.
We are delighted and sad.
It was six months ago today that we walked out of the orphanage in Taldom with these two kids. They are doing extraordinarily well. Language, behavior, attachment...all headed in the right direction. They are growing in every sense of the word. The Best of all, we all love each other.
But here's what's hard from the parent's perspective. This has been a true odyssey. The two trips to Russia. The endless trips between Moscow and Taldom. The smell of the orphanage. The scene in the courtroom. A week in a Moscow hotel room with one bed. Speaking mostly Russian for two months. Some haunting memories of kids left behind. All of that forms a memory that is precious, painful, movie-perfect, and distinctive. Our kids are succeeding. They are blending quickly into the American landscape. It's what we want for them. But the cost is that their unique route to this reality will soon be lost to all onlookers. Not only that, but the special roles we've had to play in helping with their transition will soon be unnecessary. We will simply have to be good parents like everyone else.
We are delighted and sad.
Friday, April 23, 2004
My kids have a toy that consist of an oval plastic train track, a four-car train, a front-end loader that carries and unloads plastic logs and a little helicopter. The design is quite ingenious in the way the pieces interact. The truck dumps picks a log from a hopper, turns around and heads for the other side of the tracks. Just before it gets there it stops and waits for the train. When the train arrives, it stops, then the truck moves forward,dumps the log in a railroad car, and turns to go get a another log. The train dumps it's payload in the hopper on the other side.
What I like about this system is that it mirrors my metaphysical view of the world. The key is that only the truck and the train have batteries (brains). There is no system clock or other smarts associates with the system. Yet it all works in concert. So what the point? The way I look at the world we are more or less free spirits confined only by system (i.e. cultural, social, physical) parameters. Most religions, by contrast, suggest that the system itself has the energy, the smarts. Religions implore us to abide by It's Rules.
Now I don't mean to disregard the system. Nature (like the train tracks) seems specifically and elegantly designed to facilitate it's inhabitants. All I'm saying is it has No Brains. The Designer had brains, though. But what a great combination. A brilliantly-designed giant grid that grows and adapts. The little thinkers interact with it, try to learn from it, adapt it to their needs.
Ouch. My metaphor broke.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Bonsai
I first met Clark when he interviewed me for the job. He'd been a contractor at the FAA for three years by then and they wanted to add their first PC Specialist. It was one of those rare interviews where, by the end, is was obvious you'd just it off and they wanted to cut to the chase and hire you on the spot. Clark had a charming oddball manner that drew you in. He was clearly intelligent but something wasn't quite right. He was handsome and his dress, like his speech, was a little more formal than necessary.
So I became the sixth member of the contractor team. Those were heady days that took the FAA from 3 PCs to a 320 plus a network in a few years. Clark headed our little team leveraging his leadership skills picked up in the military. He often used words like esprit de corps. After getting to know him, it became clear that his experience in VietNam shaped his personality -- probably not in a good way. Much to everyone's horror, Clark often regaled us with gruesome stories of torture he had supposedly witnessed. I'm not sure if his devotion to Christian Science came later in life but Clark seemed to use every spare minute to read passages from the Bible.
He grew up in Gross Pointe, Michigan, one on the wealthiest towns in the country. He was chauffeured to school every day. His father and brother were both doctors. I got the vague sense that Clark was a bit of a black sheep. His reluctant enlistment in the army was an effort to avoid losing his inheritance.
Over time, the focus at the FAA shifted away from the mainframes and toward the PCs and network. That fact, coupled with Clark's odd personality, eventually demoted him to the rank and file. Shortly thereafter, I became head of the contractor team, which had grown to 11 people. Except for a brief instance, Clark handled this awkward reversal well and for the seven years we worked together we got along well.
When Clark's wife, Ruth, left him for an airline pilot, he tried to make the best of it, making jokes that he was now ruthless. But it was pretty clear that he was hit hard and his quirkiness picked up a notch. He was apparently ill-prepared for taking care of himself and we would hear stories about how he would put the pre-made sandwiches - plastic and all - in the microwave for three minutes. Work was all he had in those days so it was good that he got along well with his peers in the computer room. One day the Bonsai plant he meticulously cared for on his desk disappeared. He was distraught until a mysterious envelope appeared the next day. The Polaroid showed the plant front and center. An arm extending from the border held a pistol at close range. The attached ransom note was assembled from cut up newsprint.
Clark eventually met and married a much younger woman. She was an artist of sorts. He was under no delusions, he often proudly proclaimed he was her sugar daddy. We would all roll our eyes as Clark would tell us how exhausting it is to keep such a young woman satisfied. After a few years, she left him too.
One day, Clark indicated he needed a private meeting with me. In hushed tones he offered a cryptic account of changes in his life. His past was catching up with him. The CIA had people staked out in front of his house. He had to watch his back. I didn't have to worry this would be over soon - one way or the other. He was only telling me just in case he didn't show up for work. A few weeks later I happened to be in the computer room when Clark came in to work. When he opened his briefcase to take out his lunch I saw the pistol inside. We talked about it later that day and I asked him to leave the weaponry at home.
The contract at the FAA was cut back under Reagan in 1994. I was moved to another facility where I quickly crashed and burned. Clark was among the 4 or 5 who stayed on. In another year, he was let go. I got a call sometime after that from Lou. He said look on page 6 of the Globe. The body of a man that washed up on the shore near Cohasset was identified as that of Clark G. Kelley.
There was no funeral or wake. Christian Scientists have strange customs in that area. We assumed that the loss of two wives and his job got the better of Clark. But I'd prefer to think the CIA finally got him. That everything he said is true.
I first met Clark when he interviewed me for the job. He'd been a contractor at the FAA for three years by then and they wanted to add their first PC Specialist. It was one of those rare interviews where, by the end, is was obvious you'd just it off and they wanted to cut to the chase and hire you on the spot. Clark had a charming oddball manner that drew you in. He was clearly intelligent but something wasn't quite right. He was handsome and his dress, like his speech, was a little more formal than necessary.
So I became the sixth member of the contractor team. Those were heady days that took the FAA from 3 PCs to a 320 plus a network in a few years. Clark headed our little team leveraging his leadership skills picked up in the military. He often used words like esprit de corps. After getting to know him, it became clear that his experience in VietNam shaped his personality -- probably not in a good way. Much to everyone's horror, Clark often regaled us with gruesome stories of torture he had supposedly witnessed. I'm not sure if his devotion to Christian Science came later in life but Clark seemed to use every spare minute to read passages from the Bible.
He grew up in Gross Pointe, Michigan, one on the wealthiest towns in the country. He was chauffeured to school every day. His father and brother were both doctors. I got the vague sense that Clark was a bit of a black sheep. His reluctant enlistment in the army was an effort to avoid losing his inheritance.
Over time, the focus at the FAA shifted away from the mainframes and toward the PCs and network. That fact, coupled with Clark's odd personality, eventually demoted him to the rank and file. Shortly thereafter, I became head of the contractor team, which had grown to 11 people. Except for a brief instance, Clark handled this awkward reversal well and for the seven years we worked together we got along well.
When Clark's wife, Ruth, left him for an airline pilot, he tried to make the best of it, making jokes that he was now ruthless. But it was pretty clear that he was hit hard and his quirkiness picked up a notch. He was apparently ill-prepared for taking care of himself and we would hear stories about how he would put the pre-made sandwiches - plastic and all - in the microwave for three minutes. Work was all he had in those days so it was good that he got along well with his peers in the computer room. One day the Bonsai plant he meticulously cared for on his desk disappeared. He was distraught until a mysterious envelope appeared the next day. The Polaroid showed the plant front and center. An arm extending from the border held a pistol at close range. The attached ransom note was assembled from cut up newsprint.
Clark eventually met and married a much younger woman. She was an artist of sorts. He was under no delusions, he often proudly proclaimed he was her sugar daddy. We would all roll our eyes as Clark would tell us how exhausting it is to keep such a young woman satisfied. After a few years, she left him too.
One day, Clark indicated he needed a private meeting with me. In hushed tones he offered a cryptic account of changes in his life. His past was catching up with him. The CIA had people staked out in front of his house. He had to watch his back. I didn't have to worry this would be over soon - one way or the other. He was only telling me just in case he didn't show up for work. A few weeks later I happened to be in the computer room when Clark came in to work. When he opened his briefcase to take out his lunch I saw the pistol inside. We talked about it later that day and I asked him to leave the weaponry at home.
The contract at the FAA was cut back under Reagan in 1994. I was moved to another facility where I quickly crashed and burned. Clark was among the 4 or 5 who stayed on. In another year, he was let go. I got a call sometime after that from Lou. He said look on page 6 of the Globe. The body of a man that washed up on the shore near Cohasset was identified as that of Clark G. Kelley.
There was no funeral or wake. Christian Scientists have strange customs in that area. We assumed that the loss of two wives and his job got the better of Clark. But I'd prefer to think the CIA finally got him. That everything he said is true.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Yesterday was a long and trying day in which I fought hard against Lucifer (aka Bill Gates) and lost. But there was a little high point toward the end. I was driving home and talking to Terry (who was home) on the phone as I approached the house. It was about an hour after sunset and the weather was warm and foggy. Then I saw a doe and a fawn strolling into our yard. I told Terry to bring the kids out to show them. Family units appeared at the front door. Aly and Jack stared at the deer. Then Aly looked over at me. Not realizing that I knew about the deer, she ran over screaming 'Daddy, Daddy, look at the deer!' which, of course, scared the crap out them and they ran away.
This is the way it is with these kids. One minute you're so impressed with their progress, then they do something like this, dropping the clue meter to zero. I guess you have to learn checkers before you play chess.
This is the way it is with these kids. One minute you're so impressed with their progress, then they do something like this, dropping the clue meter to zero. I guess you have to learn checkers before you play chess.
Friday, March 12, 2004
Attention, um..... oh yeah, Deficit
I'm inspired by George's lengthy, if infrequent, posts to his weblog. He's succeeding at capturing events from life and expounding on them. This is what make's it a true journal and has been my intent from the beginning. My posts tend to be very short and impromptu rather than crafted and well-considered. It's no mystery why this is - it's my life.
There are a lot of balls in the air so that anything I set my mind to will be interrupted within five minutes (for example between this sentence and the last I had to stop and have a five minute conversation with someone).
But it's not just interruption, it's also a state of attention deficit caused by this low-level chaos. I'm trying to manage two projects plus regular work plus find new office space plus lose weight plus launch a new business plus deal with Terry's stress plus be an instant Dad. On top of that I expect to keep a journal?
~~~
My friend Jim's brother is selling his house in Cazenovia, NY (near Syracuse). I Jim put up a web site to help sell the house. It's very similar to the house I live in except that he's asking a half-million dollars less than what I paid. There's this recurring theme: why do we live here and is it worth it? Except for proximity to Terry's parents, I really can't think of a reason not to cash out and buy a house in Vermont or New York State or some place warm. Do these remote locales feel more like life from my childhood where kids just play outside and get home before dark or have they switched over into the paranoia of playdates and incessant supervision?
So much to learn...
I'm inspired by George's lengthy, if infrequent, posts to his weblog. He's succeeding at capturing events from life and expounding on them. This is what make's it a true journal and has been my intent from the beginning. My posts tend to be very short and impromptu rather than crafted and well-considered. It's no mystery why this is - it's my life.
There are a lot of balls in the air so that anything I set my mind to will be interrupted within five minutes (for example between this sentence and the last I had to stop and have a five minute conversation with someone).
But it's not just interruption, it's also a state of attention deficit caused by this low-level chaos. I'm trying to manage two projects plus regular work plus find new office space plus lose weight plus launch a new business plus deal with Terry's stress plus be an instant Dad. On top of that I expect to keep a journal?
~~~
My friend Jim's brother is selling his house in Cazenovia, NY (near Syracuse). I Jim put up a web site to help sell the house. It's very similar to the house I live in except that he's asking a half-million dollars less than what I paid. There's this recurring theme: why do we live here and is it worth it? Except for proximity to Terry's parents, I really can't think of a reason not to cash out and buy a house in Vermont or New York State or some place warm. Do these remote locales feel more like life from my childhood where kids just play outside and get home before dark or have they switched over into the paranoia of playdates and incessant supervision?
So much to learn...
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Excuse me for this recurring theme but it is absolutely amazing what has happened in our house in just over 4 months. Terry and I have at least one moment a day where we are stunned by the seemingly effortless progress out kids have made. When they landed on American soil on November 4th Aly and Jack spoke no English except for "1,2,3", "hello" and "my name is..." Now check out my daughter's chat with me last night [click here].
The strange part is I don't know how it happened and I've been here all along.
The strange part is I don't know how it happened and I've been here all along.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
The door left open. It's a perfect symbol for the way a kid thinks. His consciousness encompasses the present and maybe 5 seconds of the future but none on the past. When they go through the door the opening is behind them so it would never occur to them to deal with it. This can be aggravating for a parent but it's at the core of what makes children wonderful creatures. Being in the moment and being playful can't really be separated. Adults, of course, have to move away from this state of mind in order to be responsible. But we always wish we could retrieve that sense of immediacy. Except for a brief and intense mid-life crisis, I've never even some close to it.
Sunday, February 29, 2004
child abuse
Ok I've been a real sport about this but I don't think I can't sustain this for much longer. This gives a whole new meaning to the term child abuse. It's constant. The bickering beween them, the need for something to do, to eat, to see. I can only do so much cooking, playing, teaching, talking, mentoring, tickling 'cause I don't know I think the last time I checked I was an adult!
Yesterday I hit the wall. Today starts a new phase. It's Sunday, a beautiful day. I'm in my office 20 miles from home getting some peace.
OK I feel better now.
Ok I've been a real sport about this but I don't think I can't sustain this for much longer. This gives a whole new meaning to the term child abuse. It's constant. The bickering beween them, the need for something to do, to eat, to see. I can only do so much cooking, playing, teaching, talking, mentoring, tickling 'cause I don't know I think the last time I checked I was an adult!
Yesterday I hit the wall. Today starts a new phase. It's Sunday, a beautiful day. I'm in my office 20 miles from home getting some peace.
OK I feel better now.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Flipping wind
Mousse-plastered denizen angled against the odds
Hands in pockets, a dog-eared soul faces the wind
Another day, apparently triumphant, if you believe their nods
Still leaves him parched and singed.
The sun dangles with a tease
Ready for the final plunge
Headlights blind receding peace
Another day has not begun
Mousse-plastered denizen angled against the odds
Hands in pockets, a dog-eared soul faces the wind
Another day, apparently triumphant, if you believe their nods
Still leaves him parched and singed.
The sun dangles with a tease
Ready for the final plunge
Headlights blind receding peace
Another day has not begun
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Thursday, February 05, 2004
My daughter Aly hasn't figured out how to take a compliment. Even though her English has ramped up from nothing 3 months ago, there are some interesting non-verbal aspects to her personality that are stuck. If I say "Aly, you look pretty today" she will respond with a series of guttural grunts, growls, and screams. I look at her like she's nuts and she bursts out laughing.
But yesterday we turned a corner. While she ate breakfast, I said "Aly, your hair looks really nice today." She responded with a universal adolescent gesture: the hair flip.
Ohmagawd. Behold that thing on the horizon: an ego
Sunday, February 01, 2004
Just like before, Glenn's state of mind shifted as soon as he heard the first fsssszzzt of the water spray. The thump of soggy strips against the windshield forced his eyes closed. And so it began all over again. As the great wet machinery took him in he began to dream. A hot sun baked his face. He could not distinguish the sound of ocean waves from the swarm of birds around him but it didn't matter. He was carried up into the ether. There were voices behind but one in particular that danced in his ears. He heard her approach and say his name. He tried to speak but couldn't manage a syllable. He was having trouble hearing her in this sudden wind. The swirl carried him to another place. Sweet but ghostly. His father's hand touched his shoulder. He woke to look back through the rear view mirror but only saw the air duct rolling down the glass. A moment later the sun blinded him and that weariness returned.
Why is it that sleep would only find him here?
Pulling a U-turn, Glenn queued up again. When he reached the attendant he searched again for a quizzical look. Just like before, no reaction. The windows rollup up and Glenn's state of mind shifted as soon as he heard the first fsssszzzt of the water spray......
Why is it that sleep would only find him here?
Pulling a U-turn, Glenn queued up again. When he reached the attendant he searched again for a quizzical look. Just like before, no reaction. The windows rollup up and Glenn's state of mind shifted as soon as he heard the first fsssszzzt of the water spray......
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Tooth Fairy
I never thought I would play the role of tooth fairy but I got the chance the other day. I just can’t get over how innocent and happy Aly is. When she came down the stairs clutching her three bucks, I thought she would burst. This is the norm for her. For here, there is no doubt that it’s great to be alive. And just a little of that rubs off on her dad.
I never thought I would play the role of tooth fairy but I got the chance the other day. I just can’t get over how innocent and happy Aly is. When she came down the stairs clutching her three bucks, I thought she would burst. This is the norm for her. For here, there is no doubt that it’s great to be alive. And just a little of that rubs off on her dad.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Vanishing Act
I'm so impressed with people who can regale a crowd with minimum fanfare or props. To me, the one-man show is the ultimate accomplishment. Years ago, I went to see Spalding Gray perform Monster in a Box. It's hard to define what makes such a performance enjoyable. On one level it's so pedestrian and ordinary. I think it's the insights built around common experience that pull you in.
They can't find Spalding Gray. He may have jumped off the Staten Island ferry. It's sad-to-the-bone that a person can opt out of a life that includes standing solo before a crowd, entertaining them with stories of his life.
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Reunion
At this age (over 50) a reunion of high school chums takes on a different character. Folks are pretty set in there ways. Whatever they've been doing works for them and who really cares if it doesn't resonate with others. Also there's this factor: At this point, how good can you look? We're ten years past sucking in our stomachs or explaining our existence.
Last night there were seven of us and a few spouses. No one really talked or asked about work. After all, I'm as bored explaining my work to you as I am trying to understand what you do. This new reality is refreshing, I think. It allows the evening to be about the shared past and the current moment. Everyone was relaxed. There were a lot of laughs. There probably some silent judgements being made but who cares? It's enough that we're all healthy enough to be here, lucky enough to be hanging out in the Presedential Suite, and old enough to share lots of stories.
At this age (over 50) a reunion of high school chums takes on a different character. Folks are pretty set in there ways. Whatever they've been doing works for them and who really cares if it doesn't resonate with others. Also there's this factor: At this point, how good can you look? We're ten years past sucking in our stomachs or explaining our existence.
Last night there were seven of us and a few spouses. No one really talked or asked about work. After all, I'm as bored explaining my work to you as I am trying to understand what you do. This new reality is refreshing, I think. It allows the evening to be about the shared past and the current moment. Everyone was relaxed. There were a lot of laughs. There probably some silent judgements being made but who cares? It's enough that we're all healthy enough to be here, lucky enough to be hanging out in the Presedential Suite, and old enough to share lots of stories.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Quality
I take note of quality people these days. Those with a quirky outlook or offbeat history. Maybe it's the pending election that brings up this awareness. Or the Superbowl. We are in the season where the mighty Yahoo rules.
Wait - now that was a snobby observation. After all, doesn't everyone after qualities if you look deep enough? Yeah, right!
I had two such encounters today. Kirk is a big guy who's been tuning my beast of an upright for years. We've always had nice chats during his visits but yesterday I learned that he and I are the same age and that he adopted his two girls eight years ago. A simpatico.
I arranged to meet Glenn at a Starbucks in the North End. We'll be working on the StoriedLife project. Glenn's web designer and mostly-Mac. At 25 (I'd guess) he's still laid back and taking notes
I take note of quality people these days. Those with a quirky outlook or offbeat history. Maybe it's the pending election that brings up this awareness. Or the Superbowl. We are in the season where the mighty Yahoo rules.
Wait - now that was a snobby observation. After all, doesn't everyone after qualities if you look deep enough? Yeah, right!
I had two such encounters today. Kirk is a big guy who's been tuning my beast of an upright for years. We've always had nice chats during his visits but yesterday I learned that he and I are the same age and that he adopted his two girls eight years ago. A simpatico.
I arranged to meet Glenn at a Starbucks in the North End. We'll be working on the StoriedLife project. Glenn's web designer and mostly-Mac. At 25 (I'd guess) he's still laid back and taking notes
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Pride (of all things)
I didn't expect a thing like pride to be taking hold so early in the game. I'm a beaming Dad at times. Those kids are unbelievable. Aly is devouring English at the same time she has turned sweet, affectionate, beautiful, and curious. Jack impresses on two fronts: Physical dexterity and mechanical intuition. In both cases I often can't believe what I'm witnessing. All of this would be wonderful enough but when I think about how much distance they have travelled, my pride makes me speechless.
Monday, January 12, 2004
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