A week from today I'll be making flying Southwest airlines to Chicago. Southwest is letting me fly for free, though it is also making me use the flight by mid-November. An Illinois winter can be chilly and cold, but I've worked hard to not label weather as either "good" or "bad"--it just is. I'd prefer dry weather, but I've been there before and gotten drenched by late-night rains. I once had to duck into store on North Michigan Avenue to buy what turned out to be the last raincoat on the rack. When I stepped outside again I stood beneath an awning and enjoyed the rain and the thunder and the lightning.
During most trips to my home state, I also manage a stop in my hometown, which is a 2-hour train ride from Chicago proper. I once even dragged Kominski there, and we visited the now-defunct Dick Tracy museum. Chester Gould, the man who created Dick Tracy, lived in my hometown for awhile. On this upcoming trip, however, I'm not sure I'll want to spend over 4 hours on a train just to visit a small town in which there aren't many attractions.
As usual when I travel, I have no detailed itinerary. Instead, I tend to wander awhile and consider my options. I found this to work even in Europe, though on each visit there I did have general ideas of what I wanted to see and do. I probably end up missing some of what people believe are the important places, but as I'm sure I've mentioned elsewhere, sometimes the turn down a random street leads to the best discoveries.
Regardless of the weather and the lack of a plan, the trip will be good--god willing and the river don't rise, anyway.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
Where I Am
A year ago today I started the morning with a hot pasty I bought at a small shop near the Earl's Court tube station in London. Later, I spent a few hours at the Tower of London, which was interesting but seems to have been transformed to a crowd more suited, even accustomed, to Disneyland.
Today, though, I am not there. Instead, I am sitting at home drinking hot tea and getting ready to floss my teeth. This, assuredly, is living life to its fullest.
I have been spending a lot of time lately contemplating work--not the word's denotation, but in regard to how I make my living. I used to say I sat in a cubicle and did things, but through part design and part personal choice, I can barely say that: A recent corporate reorganization gave many of us the opportunity to telecommute most of the time, while others can do so all of the time. The company gave us the hardware we need for such a thing, but in return we had to give up our own, personal cubicles.
As with most corporate reorganizations, this most recent one was couched in terms of being better for the company, better for the employees (though over 1000 of them were laid off), better for the customers. Mostly, I think, this is hogwash: I'm old enough and cynical enough and jaded enough to see that it is usually only a handful of people--mostly executives--who benefit from such things. But, to the victor go the spoils, and I do not begrudge one executive or another who seeks his or her own fiefdom.
This reorganization shares a common vocabulary with so many others: synergy, leverage, maximize. My friend Kominski has documented much of this vocabulary, even the grander corporate language that he and I have heard in the nearly 3 decades we have known each other. And this language, in some ways, is meant to excite those of us who remain. But--and I again lay some blame on my age--getting excited about work is getting to be more...work. The company that employs me is perfectly fine as an entity, and the people I interact with are friendly, pleasant, and talented. But, at the end of the week, I essentially produce nothing of value to anyone. There is no synergy; I am not leveraging anything; nothing is being maximized.
Being within the Tower of London again might not be so bad.
Today, though, I am not there. Instead, I am sitting at home drinking hot tea and getting ready to floss my teeth. This, assuredly, is living life to its fullest.
I have been spending a lot of time lately contemplating work--not the word's denotation, but in regard to how I make my living. I used to say I sat in a cubicle and did things, but through part design and part personal choice, I can barely say that: A recent corporate reorganization gave many of us the opportunity to telecommute most of the time, while others can do so all of the time. The company gave us the hardware we need for such a thing, but in return we had to give up our own, personal cubicles.
As with most corporate reorganizations, this most recent one was couched in terms of being better for the company, better for the employees (though over 1000 of them were laid off), better for the customers. Mostly, I think, this is hogwash: I'm old enough and cynical enough and jaded enough to see that it is usually only a handful of people--mostly executives--who benefit from such things. But, to the victor go the spoils, and I do not begrudge one executive or another who seeks his or her own fiefdom.
This reorganization shares a common vocabulary with so many others: synergy, leverage, maximize. My friend Kominski has documented much of this vocabulary, even the grander corporate language that he and I have heard in the nearly 3 decades we have known each other. And this language, in some ways, is meant to excite those of us who remain. But--and I again lay some blame on my age--getting excited about work is getting to be more...work. The company that employs me is perfectly fine as an entity, and the people I interact with are friendly, pleasant, and talented. But, at the end of the week, I essentially produce nothing of value to anyone. There is no synergy; I am not leveraging anything; nothing is being maximized.
Being within the Tower of London again might not be so bad.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Where I Was
A year ago today I landed at London's Heathrow airport, rode the train to Earl's Court Station, and checked into the Earl's Court Easy Hotel where I stayed for 3 days before venturing to Amsterdam. Every day, it seems, I enjoy thoughts of returning to return to England, a place that after a trio of visits I've grown quite fond of. Looking through my Moleskine, I read now that I enjoyed a couple of beers at a pub called the Prince of Teck, and I remember leaving a bit lightheaded as I made my way back to my hotel. As I leaf through the Moleskine, I see names of other pubs: Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in London (where, apparently, Dickens liked to drink); The World's End (Camden Town); The Temple Bar Irish Pub (Amsterdam); The Four Candles Free House (London); The Essex Serpent (London, near Covent Garden).
The thing about wanderlust, I think, is that it's never truly assuaged. A recent 6-day backpacking adventure didn't help much, and an upcoming 4-day trip to Chicago will probably only whet my appetite for something grand. If it isn't an illness, it certainly is a selfish thing: heading out alone and leaving others behind.
A few photos.
The Tower Bridge and the Thames from inside the Tower of London.
Within Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.
Oxford.
Amsterdam.
The thing about wanderlust, I think, is that it's never truly assuaged. A recent 6-day backpacking adventure didn't help much, and an upcoming 4-day trip to Chicago will probably only whet my appetite for something grand. If it isn't an illness, it certainly is a selfish thing: heading out alone and leaving others behind.
A few photos.
The Tower Bridge and the Thames from inside the Tower of London.
Within Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.
Oxford.
Amsterdam.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#13)
She was a harpist, and she wore a harpist's clothes. At least, she wore them for her "appointments," as she called them. Not "gigs" or "performances," but appointments. "I have an appointment this Friday," she might say. When it was time to go she'd put on her long black dress and the delicate pearl necklace and earrings. She was gifted, but one poor performance kept her out of Juilliard when she was still in high school. She never let me touch the harp itself. "It's all I've got, really," she once said in a way I knew she didn't mean.
-----
We doted on her and grew to enjoy her music. We even added a room so she could practice. She hardly came out of that room during high school. Frank, her father but no longer my husband, said she was the best he'd ever heard. I told him, If your kid's the only one in the neighborhood who plays, she's bound to be the best. We were happy when she got married, but we worried, too: She loves that instrument more than anything. I still go watch her when I can, but Billy, her husband, never seems to show up.
-----
We doted on her and grew to enjoy her music. We even added a room so she could practice. She hardly came out of that room during high school. Frank, her father but no longer my husband, said she was the best he'd ever heard. I told him, If your kid's the only one in the neighborhood who plays, she's bound to be the best. We were happy when she got married, but we worried, too: She loves that instrument more than anything. I still go watch her when I can, but Billy, her husband, never seems to show up.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#12)
When our daughter was born, I moved my office paraphernalia from her room to the master bedroom. At night, the Moloch of a computer taunted me. When my husband and I made time for sex, if I wasn't distracted by the thought of our daughter waking up, I was distracted by the computer, by the fact that I should be sitting in front of it, writing every night. When I should've been thinking about sex, I thought about writing. Worse, when I did manage to write, I thought about sex. I finally reached a point where I did neither well.
----
She's been distracted for years, and I've always felt that only part of her was with me. "I'm a writer," she explained. "I pay attention to everything. And at some point I'll use it. I remember women's shoes and the color of their toenails, and I notice how people move during their conversations. I can't help it. Everything's fair game." Often, I know she isn't really with me--she's using whatever we're doing for a plot line or a segment of dialog. To her, everyone and everything are pretend. I'd complain, but who wants to read that in a novel?
----
She's been distracted for years, and I've always felt that only part of her was with me. "I'm a writer," she explained. "I pay attention to everything. And at some point I'll use it. I remember women's shoes and the color of their toenails, and I notice how people move during their conversations. I can't help it. Everything's fair game." Often, I know she isn't really with me--she's using whatever we're doing for a plot line or a segment of dialog. To her, everyone and everything are pretend. I'd complain, but who wants to read that in a novel?
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#11)
"What is it you want?" she asked in her best monotone. It wasn't a new question. I'd come home from work, dropped my computer bag to the floor, and gone straight to the patio. I hadn't meant to ignore her as I passed through the living room, but what I'd meant to do didn't matter. She stood in the doorway when she asked, and I didn't look back toward her when I answered. "I'm not sure," I said. "I've got nothing to do at work, and that usually means they'll be getting rid of me soon." "Then quit," she said.
----
Every few months it happens: He comes home, sits morosely on the patio, starts to complain but then stops. I can see his father in him when he's like that, how his parents danced the same way sometimes. The old man, when he came home sometimes, stopped himself whenever my mother-in-law sighed at his complaints. I think it must be a German thing, that tendency to dwell silently in those little pools of self-pity but then refuse help or advice from anyone. I was serious the other night when I told him to quit. Christ, one of us has to.
----
Every few months it happens: He comes home, sits morosely on the patio, starts to complain but then stops. I can see his father in him when he's like that, how his parents danced the same way sometimes. The old man, when he came home sometimes, stopped himself whenever my mother-in-law sighed at his complaints. I think it must be a German thing, that tendency to dwell silently in those little pools of self-pity but then refuse help or advice from anyone. I was serious the other night when I told him to quit. Christ, one of us has to.
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