Pointless hypothetical ruminations

I've often thought that I couldn't have survived high school in today's society. Everyone with a MyFace page and cell phone, hyperaware of each other's "friends" and relationship status, or lack thereof... I survived 15 years ago with a bit of willful ignorance, and I don't think that's possible today.

But on the other hand, it might have been fun constructing an identity through words and links and common interests. Maybe it would have leveled the playing field.

This is what I think about when I can't fall asleep. Or else I try to figure out "Lost."

On the bright side...

I may have lost my health insurance, but I'm much calmer so I won't need the health insurance. Eh?

Eh?

Truth in writing

There are some things I read that just ooze with humanity. Unaccustomed Earth, by Jhumpa Lahiri, had believable characters in situations that didn't seem contrived and yet were still interesting.  Different. The Art of Racing in the Rain was narrated by a dog; yet this dog seemed more real, more authentic, than most characters I see on tv or in movies.

A number of things stood out to me in the President's inaugural address, but I especially appreciated this passage (emphasis mine):

Our challenges may be new. The instruments with which we meet them may be new. But those values upon which our success depends — hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism — these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths.

Fiction allows us to explore a truth in so many different ways.  Grief, joy, passion, anxiety, courage, and loyalty can be treated with the subtlety and complexity these truths deserve.  

I'm just dancing around my own explorations.  

Bombarded by noise

In the most recent edition of "Best American Short Stories," edited by Salman Rushdie, there was a story in which a town - not unlike New York City - became silent for a year. It came on gradually, with only 2- or 3- minute interruptions of absolute quiet, but soon the periods were longer. Citizens grew to love the silence, missing it so much when it disappears that they decided to make the whole city a noiseless bubble. With the quiet, people had more ideas. 

But eventually, a sound pierces the bubble. After so much quiet, the people are excited by the momentary chaos. The interruptions of noise happen again and again for longer and longer, and the people decide to get rid of the silence and go back to how things were.

It's really a nice piece that stands out from the others in the collection. "The Year of Silence," it's called, by Kevin Brockmeier.

Anyway.

I was thinking about the task we all have of living in this world. Everyone just going about it. Their lives, I mean. They get up, go to work or school, or stay home with kids, they come home, they call people, they make plans, they clean their house, they do their dishes, put away clothes, pay bills, draw, write, create.  

All that amazes me; clearly, I'm easily impressed.

Skepticism is a learned trait

When I was seven or eight, late December, I discovered a stash of presents hidden in a closet. I gladly believed my mom's explanation that some of my Christmas gifts were from Santa, and some were from Mom and Dad. 

Unwrapping presents on Christmas day, I asked, "Is this from you or from Santa?" This went on for a couple more years. I held onto a belief in a chimney-jumping fat man for much longer than my own logic could sustain, and once I let go, many other things went with it.

I wonder if children still believe in Santa, if the adults are still working to keep up the charade, and if the charade is a good thing. My sense is, yes:  The more we can crystallize childhood experiences into something positive, the better the foundation we provide for children's future success. 

But maybe the challenge is dispelling the charade at the appropriate time. I remember the horror I felt (the kind only a fourth-grader can experience) when I raised my hand following an informal, peer-led poll of "Who still believes in Santa Claus?" and then realized I was the only one to do so.

Anyway, I'm excited this Christmas. My dad's back, I'm making Mac'n'cheese (not from the box) for Christmas Eve dinner, and I have three days off in a row from work. Things are good.

Quote of the day...

How can I know what I think until I see what I say?

- E.M. Forster

French toast, hash browns, and scrambled eggs

I went out for breakfast this morning with my mom and my grandfather - today is his 93rd birthday. He still drives and he still works two or three days each week. 

After breakfast, I went to see my grandmother on my dad's side. She's 87, lives on her own, and goes line dancing twice a week. She wants to have a big party when she turns 90.

I'll stop complaining about feeling old. It's ridiculous, really.  

I think about the books I read and the books I don't read. For an English major, I'm not the most patient reader. If I'm not engaged by the third page, whether it's by a character, a plot, or the quality of writing, I put down the book. I close it and leave its world without a second thought.  I want the author to get on with the story and not waste my time.  

I just want to get on with my own story. I'm in chapter three and the main character's still fumbling around. While there are still many pages to go, I'm getting impatient. I wish I could flip ahead to see what's coming. 

(To be clear, I'm speaking metaphorically).