Monthly Archives: September 2010

Wise Words

In this dense, staccato missive, Chris Hedges makes more right-on points than I can repeat here, without just quoting the whole piece from start to finish. Go read it.

But hope is not about a belief in progress. Hope is about protecting simple human decency and demanding justice. Hope is the belief, not necessarily grounded in the tangible, that those whose greed, stupidity and complacency have allowed us to be driven over a cliff shall one day be brought down. Hope is about existing in a perpetual state of rebellion, a constant antagonism to all centers of power. The great moral voices, George Orwell and Albert Camus being perhaps two of the finest examples, describe in moving detail the human suffering we ignore or excuse. They understand that the greatest instrument for moral good is the imagination. The ability to perceive the pain and suffering of another, to feel, as King Lear says, what wretches feel, is a more powerful social corrective than the shelves of turgid religious and philosophical treatises on human will. Those who change the world for the better, who offer us hope, have the capacity to make us step outside of ourselves and feel empathy.

The role of knowledge and art, as the ancient Greeks understood, is to create ekstasis, which means standing outside one’s self to give our individual life and struggle meaning and perspective. The role of art and scholarship is to transform us as individuals, not entertain us as a group. It is to nurture this capacity for understanding and empathy. Art and scholarship allow us to see the underlying structures and assumptions used to manipulate and control us. And this is why art, like intellectual endeavor, is feared by the corporate elite as subversive. This is why corporations have used their money to deform universities into vocational schools that spit out blinkered and illiterate systems managers. This is why the humanities are withering away.

I’ve never felt so good about my Humanities degree.

For Hire

My apologies, folks, for being absent from these pages. I just finished up an intense Critical Care course, which ran six days a week and packed my brain so full of new information that it threatened to go offline. I think if I’d tried to sit down and write, all that would have flown out would be lab values and hemodynamics equations. Consider it my little gift to you that I didn’t.

But the course finished up yesterday, I have a few more letters behind my name, and now I’m in job-search mode. Actually, my first foray into such was immediately after my Critical Care exam last night, and it involved many hoops–a written assessment, skills stations, oral boards, and, of course, the traditional job interview.

I hate the traditional job interview.

I hate it because I don’t think I’m particularly good at it. I’m not particularly good at it because I think it’s a waste of time. I don’t want to answer inane questions thought up by some HR manager who knows essentially nothing about what’s involved in actually doing my job. Sure, I know the theories behind the questions–I’ve been on the asking end of them more than once–but I still maintain that they reveal only the grossest, most general information about a job candidate, without telling the interviewer much (if anything) about the candidate’s suitability for the position. The traditional job interview will illuminate a candidate’s inability to construct a simple sentence or sit still for thirty minutes without chewing on her hair or scratching his balls, but that’s about it. Do you really want to hire someone simply because they don’t scratch their balls in polite company? Is that where the bar is set for you, HR Manager person?

The Man Friend pointed out during my post-interview rant whinging analysis that it comes down to something pretty simple: the hiring process, as most corporations undertake it, is a game, and I’m not a game player. Jumping through hoops is not on my list of “likes”.

Guilty as charged.

The standard job interview questions don’t elicit from me what I want to tell the person on the other side of the conference table; they elicit what I think they want to hear. It’s not lying, because the content of my answers is still truthful, but it does still feel somehow dishonest. Forced, really. Manufactured. Played. Spun. If I’d wanted that for a career, I’d have gotten into teevee news. Making me feel just a little dirty is not the way to make me want to work for you.

Maybe it’s just my own myopia, but more and more I feel like my experience of the world is shaped by such game-playing. Politics–an interest I want so much to cultivate, being as it is steeped in history and responsible for shaping so much of how we live our lives–is today little more than spectacle, a revolving cast of players gaming themselves, each other, and the system. As Thomas Friedman put it in his piece in today’s Times, “…our politics has become just another form of sports entertainment, our Congress a forum for legalized bribery and our main lawmaking institutions divided by toxic partisanship to the point of paralysis.” Chris Hedges points out that, “Campaigns are built around the manufactured personal narratives of candidates, who function as political celebrities, rather than policies or ideas.” It’s farcical and disingenuous and frustrating, and it would all be easy to dismiss but for the fact that what these shysters decide really does impact my life, and yours. Which just makes it worse.

I want as much honesty in my life as will fit. I want to be asked and to answer, to ask and to be answered, without artifice. I want to be swayed by the validity of your argument, the strength of your logic, the deep and moving truth of your emotion, not tricked with smoke and mirrors or dazzled with temptations.

Likewise, I want to rely on my own wits, my own logic, my own skill to change your mind. Ask me to tell you about what I believe, how I do my job, what the work means to me. Don’t ask me to enumerate my weaknesses or tell you where I want to be in five years. If you select me for a job based on how well I can play this game–in other words, how well I can be quasi-dishonest, suppressing my instincts and squashing what I really want to say to give you what I think you want to hear–we both lose.

Equinox

It may be near 90 degrees outside right now, but the calendar, the crisp morning air, and the sassafras tree in my back yard all agree: my favorite season has arrived.

Some people are marking the occasion by producing new winter wear or cool weather fare; I’m celebrating with crunchy local apples, an indoor microgardening scheme for the coming cold temps (stay tuned!), and a resolve to follow Ma Nature’s example and scale back for a bit. An adjustment of priorities is overdue, as a very important person reminded me just last night.

I’m paying attention to the equinox’s little reminder about balance, and appreciating that it comes clothed in sunset colors.

Taskmaster, misguided

When I was growing up, homework was always the first thing I did once I got home from school. I’d roll in the door after lugging a dozen or more pounds of books up our nearly mile-long stretch of rocky driveway, make a snack, and settle in at the kitchen table. It was the studious version of pulling off a bandaid: I’d get it done early and quickly, then savor what was left of the evening with no obligations hanging over my head.

This practice, in various forms, has carried well into adulthood–sometimes to ridiculous lengths. I’ve been known to knuckle down and finish some mundane little task before allowing myself to eat or pee or tend to some other such vital distractor. It’s not a self-punishment thing–the eating or the peeing has never been a reward for my virtuous behavior–it’s more just a pathologically hypertrophied form of tenacity. I’ll forgo lunch to the point of becoming shaky and hostile, just so I can finish some chore I’ve arbitrarily assigned myself.

In another life, I must have been a monk, denying the body and hoeing turnips on some lonely hill.

Driven. Stubborn. Headstrong. These are words that–quite fairly–have been used to describe me. So I suppose it’s not so surprising that I will angrily refuse any helpful suggestion that I have a sandwich–or even simply acknowledge that the sandwich and its eating are more important than unpacking another moving box or sweeping another room or finishing up something completely devoid of deadline, importance, or any real significance whatsoever. It makes its own kind of weird sense–I’ll enjoy the sandwich so much more if this one final thing is finished–and you might reasonably expect someone so driven to be a Great Accomplisher of Many Important Things. A workhorse. A producer. A results-getter.

Funny, that.

One caveat to this particular persistent madness: it’s not planned. It’s never planned. I dig my heels in whenever the ground seems soft enough; I don’t plan to walk to that point. I don’t pack a picnic lunch, or tell anyone where I’m going. It just happens. I’m usually as surprised as you to find my ground stood, as it were.

What doesn’t just happen is anything that takes actual discipline. I will deny myself respite until the laundry or the cooking or the studying is done, but I haven’t yet mustered the tenacity to set aside any real, regular time for the things that bring me joy.

Am I making up for my lack of discipline by bulldogging pointless things, just to feel like I put my nose to the proverbial grindstone and accomplished something?

Or is it that, joy and denial being such unlikely company, I can’t really be good at the one until I figure out how to ease up on the other?

I want to be the monk too enthralled by the Book of Kells to run behind a bush, not the one doing the peepee dance in the turnip patch just so she can say she made it to the end of the row.

Working toward something I actually want should be carrot enough, but it seems the least desirable habits are the hardest to break. What does it take to teach an old bulldog new tricks?

Sunday Morning

You make a
comma with your body
and I am happy to play
predicate to your subject,
adhere to that curve,
punctuate
another hour of sleep.

The dogs diagram it out,
tack on their phrases,
use small words.

We four clump
like platelets in the
vessel of our bed,
a warm clot of
soft breathing stupor and delay,
languishing
and lavishing
a day without schedules.

Sleep, capital S,
begins another paragraph,
the thesis the same.
You roll in a semicolon,
sigh an em dash.

The pace quickens
and eight eyes open.

Smell of coffee,
exclamation point.

Listening Post: I heart Asheville edition

I have a problem. Actually, it’s one of those “problems” that can only be called that if you’re making air quotes. Like having too much chocolate cake in your kitchen, or too much dog snuggling, too little responsibility, and too many books to read on a quiet, cloudy afternoon.

My problem is this: I have moved to a city with too much good live music. Even worse, all that good music is coming to small venues, since that’s pretty much all we’ve got.

I can hear your murmurs of sympathy for my plight. Yes, it will be difficult to get through this. I’m still in the early stages of coping, living with such uncertainties as Will I have that night off? and What if it sells out before I know? Should I buy tickets now and sell them if I have to? How awful would it be to end up getting the night off, only to not have a ticket? It’s rough, but I’m hanging in there.

For your listening pleasure, a little of this torture:

And last night, the estimable Mark Growden found his way to our little burg. Twas good to see him again.

Torment never felt so good.

Mea culpa

I debated posting something so esoteric as this, but I find I have a bit of a correction to make, and it seemed wrong to overlook it. If you’re not in EMS, you can click on through without missing much.

If you are in EMS, you might have read my little rant from a couple of weeks back. You might even have shared my pique, and shaken your fist just a little at the injustice. Well, I hate to take the wind outta your sails, but I find I must recant. I’ve learned that this listing was for a very specific position as a clinical preceptor in the hospital–thus the RN requirement. The regular teaching positions do not have the same criteria. Props to AB-Tech for hiring dedicated preceptors for their students: the clinical and field portions of a Paramedic’s education are critical, and I respect an institution that strives to maximize the value of that time.

That being said, a portion of one of our lectures this week brought up an interesting and related point. I’m currently taking a Critical Care Transport class, and there’s an entire section in both the book and the class time devoted to interacting with members of the patient care team. Specifically, the point seems to be to remind Paramedics and Nurses to play nice with one another.

The fact that this had to be explicitly incorporated into the curriculum is huge, and disheartening.

Obviously, I can only speak from one side of the fence here. And, as a Paramedic, I can attest to the fact that it is tiresome and frustrating that what I do is so poorly understood by my colleagues in medicine. But, when it comes down to it, isn’t that all beside the point?

Regardless of whose feelings are hurt or who’s feeling territorial or more knowledgeable or more entitled to be “in charge” of patient care, it’s that last part that brings us all together, isn’t it? The patient care bit? Notice that I’m not mentioned in that phrase. Nor is the nurse, or the RT, or the MD. The patient is why we’re all doing what we’re doing in the first place, and that should be the only incentive we need to communicate clearly, efficiently, and professionally with one another. It’s fairly embarrassing that we need a textbook to remind us of it.

Let’s be friends

Make new friends
but keep the old
one is silver
and the other gold

~Please tell me you had to sing this in Brownies too? Now it’s stuck in my head, and someone should share the misery nostalgia.

Here’s something that crossed my mind more than a few times before we moved: I’ve had very few opportunities in my life to make friends, to really start from scratch in a new place and meet totally new people. High school and college come with built-in pools of people to draw upon for friends and dates and rivals and acquaintances–it’s easier there than it will ever be again. After that–assuming you don’t stay in the same place and keep the same roster of friends–you’ve got to grow up, venture out, and (ack!) meet strangers.

With my hermit tendencies growing only more pronounced with age, this isn’t always an enticing prospect.

But I must say our new home, just weeks old, is yielding a bounty of possibilities. It helps that we’ve been able to dive right in to volunteering for Asheville on Bikes, thanks to some serendipitous timing. I’ve been impressed so far with the open, welcoming vibe we’ve been met with, but I can’t say I’m surprised. We’re talking about a group of people here who are working on their own time to make this little city a safer place for bikes–which, in turn, has an enormous ripple effect on the health and happiness of all her inhabitants. These are people who are looking out for each other and for their larger community. Put another way, these are people who expect to have friends in their life–old or new, passing or lasting. It’s not just a matter of being “nice” or “outgoing”; it goes deeper:

It has something to do with fear and what sort of fundamental assumptions we hold about what we expect to find when we step outside our front door.

Do you expect your street, your neighborhood, your city to be a hospitable place or not? Do you anticipate a smile and a nod from your neighbor? Do you feel safe walking to your car or to the store or to the park?

Making friends isn’t just about the yearbook values–Best Smile, Most Likely to Succeed, Nicest Car–it’s about what you believe about people, and what you believe about yourself as a person among them.

It will be easy to make friends here, but not because I’m particularly good at it. Living among people who are invested in each other and invested in their city just predisposes even the most curmudgeonly to build relationships, however slowly or timidly. When a neighbor has your back, you eventually invite a neighbor over for dinner. It’s an attitude thing, an environment thing, a community thing. And it can be built, or torn down, a little at a time every day.

The warm spot

As surely as the sound of a scraped plate or a leash lifted from its laundry closet hook will bring the four-footed members of the household running, a newly vacant warm spot on the couch will cause one to become rooted in it, reclining and lead-heavy, with a possum-sleep that says I’ve been here for years and I’m not moving for the likes of you. It happens silently and swiftly: I set aside my reading, walk to the kitchen to stand in front of an open refrigerator, eat a few forkfuls of mashed sweet potatoes and grab a fresh beer. Rounding the corner, I find I’ve been usurped, the offending hound curling his body into the warm spot my own backside made. His deep, rhythmic breaths sound like Do Not Disturb.

He is secure in the knowledge that he is irresistible. He slumbers with the untroubled peace of the innocent, or the clueless.

Some things are inherently calming. The rise and fall against your thigh of a warm dog’s side is but one of them.

Today in a high place, I drank in the sight of leaves turning impossible colors–the pink of eighties fashion, purple of a deep bruise, scarlet of a Letter–all shot through with bolts of sunlit goldenrod. Late berries still clung to shrub and bramble, sweet and sour. The air warm, the breeze cold. A gurgling and purring of clear water over lined stone. My hiking companion said the place made him want to sleep, and he wasn’t talking about boredom. Some things are inherently calming.

There is also this: yesterday I took eggplant and okra and apples and sausage from the hands of the ones who grew them, no express lane or fluorescent lights about it.

And this: there are banjos in my radio again. It’s such a simple thing, to turn on the radio and actually want to hear what’s on, but it’s something I’ve missed living the last decade in corporate radio land. Even that faint crackle of static, which no amount of antenna adjustment will resolve, is comforting.

Or this: the yoga studio in my neighborhood has Anusara teachers, creaking wood floors, and a motley gang of fellow practitioners. These are all very good things. Plus: I’d forgotten about sweat–you can’t do much of it in the desert. Last week, in my first class in this new place, I dripped great round drops of sweat on my mat and gripped the floor with sweaty toes and smiled under sweat-soaked eyebrows.

It doesn’t take much, really. These are simple things, honest things. They feel like home, like thick quilts, good earth, and front porches. This dog at my side knows the value of such things–how is it we can so easily forget it? Better to be like him, and snatch the warm spot when it’s there.

Birthday blog

One year ago today, fifteen hundred miles and change from where I now sit, I plunked down some cash for my very own domain name and started pecking at a keyboard. And I’m still here, nudging this blog in one direction and then another, looking for its proper fit. I expect that evolution will continue for a bit yet.

What I said then still holds: “My vision is for this space to be a wordy playpen, caching everyday blogging, my published writing portfolio, and signposts pointing you toward things I like.” The playpen bit has been the most fun, and it’s why I keep writing.

I’ve been writing poetry here, after a long hiatus, and I like it, even if I am just a bit sheepish about admitting that. If you’re just joining me, first welcome! and second, you might enjoy these. I know I do:
Katydid
North Faulty Trail
Two Places
Napping

I’ve been writing about writing here–mine and other people’s–largely because words are how I process. Cows chew cud; I ruminate at a keyboard. Sometimes it’s specific; sometimes I just flex my writerly muscles because it feels good. Naturally, talking about writing also means talking about reading.

I’ve been writing about health, in a very broad sense: “alternative” healing modalities, food and nutrition, and fitness are particular and recurring interests. Sometimes I’m even funny.

As you might imagine, I have a few opinions, and sometimes they even make for good reading. Among them: Paste magazine doesn’t care what I think and Bah, humbug!

I write some about identity, because it can tell us a lot about how we learn and what we value and how we think and talk about ourselves and each other. I’m very interested in why we do what we do, how we think about it all, and if and how we can change. Human behavior is at once instructive, appalling, beautiful, and inspiring. For me, all this pondering is about what I call The Good Life–what it takes to live one, how to get there, and why it’s important. Some of my favorites that fall under this broad umbrella include Helping Hands and Real Estate.

I try my hand at deep thoughts and not-so-deep thoughts. Sometimes I just let other people say–or sing–a few words, because I like them and think you might, too.

So, thanks for coming, and for coming back. I hope you find a few things you like. I’m still here, shuffling sentences, prodding gerunds, and grinning over a well-turned phrase. It’s been a great first year.