Bits and Bytes

Yesterday's important is today's meaningless. At work a couple days ago I found myself digging into network drives and folders in a quest to reduce the number of stored files as part of a larger corporate quest to free up storage space for new and improved important stuff. Years ago we did as much with paper files: periodically purged cabinets of 20-pound copy paper, of manila folders, of 3-ringed binders. Most of the ones and zeroes I disposed of this week were years old, artifacts of then-crucial projects meant to improve the company's bottom line as it had never been improved before. We worked hard, and we worked happily. We arrived early; we skipped lunch; we stayed late; we worked the occasional weekend not just because we were asked to, but because we had some pride in what we were doing.

I, of course, was much younger then, more enthused about giving my all to keep the company's shareholders happy. The technology enthused me, and I was glad to be working with people bent toward creativity and doing things differently. Some of these people I have known for over a decade in a couple places of employment, and some of these people still work with me. And some of these people were part of one or another layoffs and have moved on to other places. Some of these former coworkers were represented in those files I deleted from the network drives, and I found myself opening each folder, scrolling through each file, trying to recall by the files' dates just who was working on what and when. Some of these coworkers I have not seen in a long time, and a couple I still communicate with and see regularly. A couple I even conisder friends.

Remarking on the disposability of corporate souls is not new, but in today's social and economic climate the risk of being disposed of is only a single executive decision away. Where I work, we have been advised that there will be no training budget, no "non-essential" travel, and no raises next year. In their benevolence, though, our 2 top executives are taking a cut in pay, and they have told us that the company will continue to contribute to our 401k plan. I should feel lucky, I suppose, that I still have a job, for I know there are many others across the country who do not (my brother-in-law, for one). I do not fear losing my job, for I have been through the process before and I came out of it fairly well.

When all of the files were deleted, I continued with a couple of my current projects, making sure I backed them up to the drives on which I had freed so much virtual space. I felt as though it was my duty to leave traces of myself there--the folders and files so crucial to the company's business.

War of the Words

This previous Saturday morning found me seated comfortably around a table with a group of writers whom I have associated with for the last couple of years. These writers--poets, really--have more writing and reading experience than I can ever hope to acquire, and I felt humbled to be among them as each of us read and critiqued poems and poets. I was openly proud at having brought for discussion a new poem for 2 consecutive meetings though neither poem has been especially refined or long.

After our meeting I stopped at home for a couple of hours then left for yet another meeting with a writer, this rendezvousing with Kominski who took time away from his own literary endeavors to meet me almost halfway between our respective abodes. And this time I was blessed with gifts: music, movie, literature hand-crafted by Kominski himself. I offered nothing and even let him buy me a beer. We wandered past forlornly empty and abandoned independent bookstores, but found some joy in the more corporate type. Topics of discussion included children, wives, baseball, writing, reading, Chicago, mothers and fathers, dogs, girlfriends, places of employment, music.... Part of the discussion included even the notebooks we favor, which may make us seem as a couple of old men with little more to discuss but truly does not. Writers--real and faux--dwell on these things, the tools of the trade. I have come to enjoy fine pens, as well, and own 3 nicely balanced wooden ones including a beauty purchased several years ago in Newport, Rhode Island. Regular pens are adequate when nothing else is around, but for serious work a good pen goes a long way. If they made me a better writer I would be doubly blessed.

After dinner and reluctant to stand outside in a cold wind that chilled us both Kominksi headed west and I headed east. I put the new music, The Who in concert, into my car's CD player and turned onto the freeway toward a moon full but for a slice of shadow at its top. In no hurry to get home I stayed in the right-most lane so that non-Who listeners could lead the way toward Sacramento, the buildings of which were illuminated brightly.

On the seat beside me were the movie and Kominski's literature, as well as a new Rhodia notebook that now begs for ink from one of my wooden pens. As if I need more notebooks, more empty pages, since most of my writing is accomplished on one of these infernal computers. Overall, however, the day's company of writers must have left an impression of some sort, for the next morning after a good bike ride I managed to sit down and type about 700 words of a novel I have been considering. This is part of the first chapter. And if you've ever tried writing a novel, you probably know that first chapters are a piece of cake because they require so little thought, so little plot. The real work comes later.

On a Whim and a Prayer

Back from yet another short and loosely planned trip to the PNW and feeling as rested as 2.5 days away can make a person feel. The trip included things domestic (appliances), things festive (Christmas), and things social (yep--with real people), all highlights in their own way.

Of note, however, was an introduction (probably a re-introduction, really) to the McMenamins concept: transform old buildings into unique destination spots where grub and grog are readily available. On this trip my hosts to me to Edgefield, where the company, the dining, and the glass of Pinot Grigio were quite nice in the cool Oregon air. My host's friend and I exchanged war stories. My host was hostful. I watched a couple of women transform molten glass into wonderful works of art (one of these women would also gladly exchange some of that art for some of my money.) Drinks were served in the Little Red Shed. Dinner was served in the Power Station Theater & Pub.

I am already plotting my return to Edgefield, perhaps accompanied by my spouse who might enjoy a visit to the onsite spa while I hide out in Jerry's Ice House, an extremely small shack with an extremely good sound system and television through which nothing but Grateful Dead music and videos play. Though I am not a Deadhead by any means (spent too many hours listening to Paul Simon, for Chrissake), the Ice House was cozy and welcoming enough that I pictured myself with my notebook and/or laptop and some good beer, all the while trying to conjure up one Muse or another. Kominski, he of great Grateful Dead knowledge and affection, is probably more suited to the Ice House than am I, and he would be good to have along to provide insight into the Dead mystique. (If you encourage him, perhaps he'll share some of his Dead experiences.) There is, also, a short golf course if you are maschocistic or even if you simply enjoy the game.

One unexpected gift from the trip was the first paragraph of what I think could be a fun novel to write. Okay, one stinking paragraph doesn't mean much, and I have no clue what the second paragraph will be, but I had fun sitting in PDX and scribbling lines onto a piece of scrap paper I found in my pocket. Now, that second paragraph.....

What a Long, Strange Trip

With a bit over a week to go in the semester, I am ready for and looking forward to an extended break. My students, too, are ready, and I do not hold this against them. They have suffered through 240 minutes a week of my standing in front of the classroom ostensibly there to enlighten them about the secret to good writing. Fat chance. Instead I have told them that the secret to good writing is spending a lot of time practicing it--like meditating or playing shortstop.

Several--always the same ones--of these young people have tried my patience for 16 weeks. One young man, who has made no secret of his somewhat violent youth and who now trains as a boxer and a extreme fighter, last night objected to my request that he remove his headphones as he completed the course final. "It's not bothering nobody," he said, even though I told him that because this was a departmental requirement, it was also mine. He stared at me in a way that let me know he wanted to (and most assuredly could) pummel me into submission. I pictured myself rolling on the floor with my lips split open, my teeth shattered. But, like a dog, I stared back just because... why? Who knows. He ended up putting his precious iPod away, finishing the exam, and leaving without measuring his knuckles against the width of my cheekbones.

Others in the class have challenged me in similar ways, speaking aloud against required assignments, at due dates, at work they see as frivolous and meaningless. Two of these darlings come 15 minutes late (together) to most classes, often not bringing their textbooks, usually shaking their respective heads at what they are asked to do.

Many nights I have come home discouraged--with the students, with this avocation, with my sometimes obvious inability to articulate why I ask them to do something. I want to say there is rhyme to my reason, that I am hopeful they will someday need to be able to write and will do so effectively. Each night I must weigh this discouragement against the small sparks of progress I see in some of the students' writing, against those students who seem to take the classwork seriously and who are considerate of others in the classroom.

This semester there is Josh, who has written about his troublesome childhood and stints of homelessness as his mother was drunk. He has also given me some of his creative writing to read, and I have said that I will do so though at times this semester he has tested my patience with his childish remarks and behavior. There is Karen, who left an abusive, alcoholic husband and is now trying to get her daughter into rehab of some sort. There are Tiffany and Janice, who rarely speak but who check and recheck their in-class work and who use every possible minute of allotted time for in-class tests. And there is Will, who is quiet and intelligent and who talks football and soccer and baseball with me, and who is majoring in Liberal Arts with a goal of teaching elementary school. And there are others who have alluded to abuse of one kind or another, to broken families, to dreams they have for their futures.

And there are several who have already registered for the course I will teach next semester, a course I have promised will be more difficult not because of its content requirements, but because I will know what they have studied this semester.

At the start of the next semester, I hope to have forgotten my discouragements, just as I hope to have learned from my own mistakes.

Fogged

Driving south on Highway 99 last night, heading home from class, the thousands of us were moving at 65 miles an hour through a nice blanket of fog. In California, this is what we do: maintain or increase our driving speed as the conditions worsen. I stayed in the right-hand lane so the less timid could get to where they were going faster. Ninety minutes earlier one of my students had commented on how much he hates the fog, and he didn't understand why some of us actually like it. "It's easier to hide in," I said, but I suppose he's young enough that he doesn't yet need places to hide.

The local Classic Rock radio station is doing an A-Z countdown, and as I merged onto the freeway Jimi Hendrix's "Are You Experienced" began, and the song fit the environment quite well. I seldom listen to this station (how many times can we re-listen to music that's 30 or 40 years old, for crying out loud!), so I was glad to have tuned in when I did. Hemmed in by a rather tall concrete median strip (meant to discourage rubber-neckers) on one side and an even taller concrete sound-deflection wall on the other, I felt comfortably hemmed in by walls and fog. The fog seemed to reduce all things visible to bits and pieces of light: headlights and taillights; dashboard lights; exit-ramp lights. Quite enjoyable. Even the green exit signs over the freeway, with their white and occasionally yellow lettering, seemed bright.

As I drove, I remembered other times I'd been in literal fogs. Once, my wife and I drove to Phoenix (partially on Highway 99) in March, leaving town at 3 in the morning. Fifty miles after we started we hit a layer of fog that lasted until Bakersfield in Southern California. She slept most of the way, and in my little Honda Civic I drove the speed limit and tried keep the red taillights of the cars and trucks within sight. If she'd been awake, she (being the smart one) would've told me to slow down, that god knows how quickly things can happen when you can't see. Another drive was on what must have been our first Thanksgiving with our first son. Driving home through California's delta region, I could not see beyond the hood of our Datsun pick-up truck. She was awake, the son was asleep, and I kept my speed down to--what...10 miles an hour? I remember having to use the centerline on the road as a guide. A third experience involved no cars at all, just an excursion to the banks of the American River after some friends and I chewed mushrooms (my only time) and thought it would be a good idea to wander through the woods along the river. Everything that night seemed overly bright, even in the fog. I think I could have walked there forever. We returned to the party a few hours later no worse for wear, and hunkered down to listen to Led Zepplin's album Physical Graffiti, one of the finest rock albums ever. Don, one of my friends at the time, seemed especially pleased with the music, and he vowed then to buy a copy of the album.

Around 4 this morning, I climbed out of the warm bed, dressed in my running garments, and went outside to find that the fog I'd hoped for hadn't lingered. Still, the dark was enough to hide in, and "Are You Experienced" kept rolling through my head, especially the final 3 lines:

Have you ever been experienced?
Not necessarily stoned, but
beautiful.

Not sure exactly why I remembered those lines, but they seemed a good way to end a relatively pointless entry here....