Category Archives: night thoughts

On a stormy night

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Thunderstorms are rolling through central Texas. I do have to leave one car out in the chaos, but it's a little old and can handle it. The suspense is strange because we can watch the storms approach on radar. They look menacing, but will they really make it to Waco? We could use the rain, but we don't need hail or strong winds, and we certainly don't need tornados or damaging winds to knock down our homes, buildings, or trees. The fury of Mother Nature is quite humbling. She can manage to move enormous amounts of wind and rain, hail, and show us how weak and pathetic we really are. We put up all kinds of structures, pretending that they will last in spite of the weather and the passing of time. Putting up structures has been the story of mankind, but the ruins of those structures stand as mute testimony to the enduring power of Mother Nature to blow-off roofs, knock down trees, break windows, and shatter the dreams of builders and architects everywhere. In a sense, the normal state of any building or structure is a ruin. When we see or experience a building in its pristine or new, recently constructed state, we are experiencing the exception to the rule that all buildings will always end in a ruin. Whatever the architect's original dream was, all buildings will always end up in an archeologist's sketch book. Thunderstorms are an implacable metaphor for the destructive nature of time. The violence of lightening and wind, driving rain, are indicative of the giant forces that lie just below the surface of a beautiful spring day. Behind the moderate temperatures, blue skies, and light breezes lurk the life-changing destructive powers of nature. We make the error of thinking that we are in control with our beautiful homes, air-conditioning, and heating, but the sad truth is that this is nothing but hubris and wishful thinking. A beautiful day is really a simulacrum for peace and tranquility, and we all know that peace and tranquility are just a bit of wishful thinking that precede a dark night of disasters and broken dreams. Stormy nights like this one are made for contemplating the darker side of life, for thinking about the fragility of our plans, and how those plans can so easily go astray, run up on the rocks, go up in smoke. A stormy night is a reminder for everyone that we are not in control, and that all of our attempts to simulate control are both erroneous and pointless. We stand at the edge of a chasm without really knowing it or realizing it. We put on a good face, a mask of civility which hides the fear, the sadness, the doubts. A stormy night mirrors the internal chaos of each person--depression, melancholy, conflict, fears, and desire. Whether the rain and hail fall, whether the winds blow, whether the lightening strikes, is immaterial, it is the metaphor of the impending storm that matters. Who knows if it will ever rain again, but the threat is out there, the storm approaches, and everything is uncertain.

On a stormy night

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Thunderstorms are rolling through central Texas. I do have to leave one car out in the chaos, but it's a little old and can handle it. The suspense is strange because we can watch the storms approach on radar. They look menacing, but will they really make it to Waco? We could use the rain, but we don't need hail or strong winds, and we certainly don't need tornados or damaging winds to knock down our homes, buildings, or trees. The fury of Mother Nature is quite humbling. She can manage to move enormous amounts of wind and rain, hail, and show us how weak and pathetic we really are. We put up all kinds of structures, pretending that they will last in spite of the weather and the passing of time. Putting up structures has been the story of mankind, but the ruins of those structures stand as mute testimony to the enduring power of Mother Nature to blow-off roofs, knock down trees, break windows, and shatter the dreams of builders and architects everywhere. In a sense, the normal state of any building or structure is a ruin. When we see or experience a building in its pristine or new, recently constructed state, we are experiencing the exception to the rule that all buildings will always end in a ruin. Whatever the architect's original dream was, all buildings will always end up in an archeologist's sketch book. Thunderstorms are an implacable metaphor for the destructive nature of time. The violence of lightening and wind, driving rain, are indicative of the giant forces that lie just below the surface of a beautiful spring day. Behind the moderate temperatures, blue skies, and light breezes lurk the life-changing destructive powers of nature. We make the error of thinking that we are in control with our beautiful homes, air-conditioning, and heating, but the sad truth is that this is nothing but hubris and wishful thinking. A beautiful day is really a simulacrum for peace and tranquility, and we all know that peace and tranquility are just a bit of wishful thinking that precede a dark night of disasters and broken dreams. Stormy nights like this one are made for contemplating the darker side of life, for thinking about the fragility of our plans, and how those plans can so easily go astray, run up on the rocks, go up in smoke. A stormy night is a reminder for everyone that we are not in control, and that all of our attempts to simulate control are both erroneous and pointless. We stand at the edge of a chasm without really knowing it or realizing it. We put on a good face, a mask of civility which hides the fear, the sadness, the doubts. A stormy night mirrors the internal chaos of each person--depression, melancholy, conflict, fears, and desire. Whether the rain and hail fall, whether the winds blow, whether the lightening strikes, is immaterial, it is the metaphor of the impending storm that matters. Who knows if it will ever rain again, but the threat is out there, the storm approaches, and everything is uncertain.

On the Spanish fighting bulls

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There is no figure more iconic in Spanish culture than the fighting bull, all 1,400 pounds of him. When students ask me about Spain, they inevitably also ask if we will be going to a bull fight, the ritual slaughter of one of these brutal animals. Even though the bull is highly recognized, highly iconic, he occupies a very small part of real Spanish culture. Yet bullfighting is such an odd and outrageous spectacle that it has become one of the most recognizable parts of Spain's image. The fighting bull, a rather savage and brutal species of cattle, are native to Spain and have been bred for centuries for this one purpose: to be killed by a "matador de toros" or torero, armed only with a very sharp sword and his cape. Given the ferocious nature of these animals, bullfighting is an extremely dangerous line of work, and many men have died because of it. The bulls are raised in the distant high pastures of the central, southern, and western mesas that cover most of Spain. Curiously, the cows of the same species are relatively tame in spite of their large fierce appearance. The ranchers that raise these animals begin to cull their herds to the "plaza" when the bulls reach about three years of age and weigh in at about 1,200 to 1,500 pounds. I will skip the exact details of the ritual killing of these animals, ritual slaughter because others have written about it before and done a much better job--Hemingway, for example, in Death in the Afternoon. One might make an argument for the art of bullfighting, the danger, the ballet, the pressure, but I'm not super-impressed. Raising a large animal in order to kill it with a sword seems like animal cruelty, I'm just saying. Others would disagree and say that this is tradition, culture, and passion, but I would suggest that not all traditions, not all bits of culture, are worth saving. I don't think that Spanish culture is better because of bullfighting, and I don't think Spanish culture would be missing a whole lot if bullfighting went the way of the Dodo bird. A few old cigar-smoking curmudgeons with raspy voices will be free at five o'clock on any given afternoon, ranchers will have to raise regular beef cattle, and a few skinny guys with good sword skills will have to get real jobs. Still others will argue that it is hypocritical to challenge or criticize bullfighting and then go eat a hamburger. Yes, we slaughter our beef cattle, but it takes but a moment, not the average fifteen minutes that a single bull might last.To idealize bullfighting seems disingenuous, if not outright reckless, turning the ritual slaughter of an animal into a spectacle and business. Since I am not really Spanish, (I hear the murmuring), I just don't understand either the ritual or the tradition. Perhaps I am just a bleeding-heart, tree-hugging, granola eating liberal that has no guts for a little pain and suffering, and I don't understand the beauty of the pageantry, the glory and art of the successful bullfighter who runs that sword into the bull's back. Perhaps I just don't understand the danger, the challenge, the pain, the athleticism of the entire dark scene--blood, sweat, sand, swords, pink socks, and guys with ponytails. The bull is at the center of an extremely bizarre happening that is almost impossible to describe to the uninitiated. The animals are huge, fast, and dangerous, and the guys trying to kill them are definitely risking their lives, but in the end, I might ask, what's the point? Prove they are more macho than the animal?

On January

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The first month of the year has always been a series of mixed blessings and curses for me. I love winter sports--skating and skiing, ice fishing, but twenty-seven degrees below zero, less than eight hours of daylight, icy roads, and cranky people make January a real challenge to get through. One has irrational dreams of Florida, the Bahamas, Mexico, while shoveling the latest dusting of snow. The wind nips at your nose and ears, daring you to put a hat on. Yet cold weather people make the best of it. They ignore the cold, don't zip their jackets, mislay their hats and gloves, all in an attempt to pretend that winter is really not there at all. January is also about getting back to work and school and burrowing into the routine. Perhaps routine is even harder to take than winter because routine will crush your spirit and bury your soul. I know that routine is also good, giving meaning and structure to our lives: we work, study, eat, shower, cook, do dishes, wash clothes, watch television, read books. Yet we are creatures of routine. Given a chance we always sit int he same chair, drive the same routes to work, eat the same lunch, wear the same clothes, drink the same drinks. We have so little imagination at times that it seems incredible that we have a creative bone in our bodies. But if January proves anything, it proves that the human spirit is indomitable. We are capable of almost unimaginable creative energy, writing books, doing research, inventing new machines, composing music, sculpting art, choreographing dances, dreaming poetry, singing songs, exploring unknown countries. So people are a complex mix of energy and creation and lethargy and routine. January, I believe, brings all of these strange and nutty tendencies to a head. Short days and long nights give people too much time to think about the darker side of existence--why am I here, what am I doing with my life, should I stop doing this and become a carpenter? January insists that you ask the hard questions about life, but ironically does not insist on any answers. You see, January is just there--cold, uncaring, desolate, empty, like a long hall connecting disparate subway stations illuminated only by a bitter neon that emphasizes the wrinkles, enhances the creakiness of your limbs, and chills your cheery outlook. The best approach to surviving January is to not look at it directly, but to squint, turn your head, and glance furtively at it without letting on that you might be interested. You have to flirt with January, play hard-to-get, but don't ask for its phone number or buy it a drink. January can run you over like a steamroller if you let it. I prefer a more non-chalant approach as if January were a rescue animal that you might take home if you think it's cut enough or that you might be compatible. And of course, January will hurt you, make you cry, make you regret ever having spoken or become Facebook friends. January will forget to call, throw you over for someone else, leave you out in the cold, shamelessly abandon you for someone or something else. A storm will come up, the snow will fall, the temperatures will drop, the sun will set early, and the dark will creep in from all sides to cover your little island of warmth and light. The bright side of this is February, so beware.

On nights like this

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Darkness has descended upon the landscape. Wind buffets the house. The temperature is dropping. On a night like this one must count one's blessings that the furnace is working, the windows are solid, the insulation is effective, and the fire in the hearth is bright and warm. It's on nights like this when the stars are spinning overhead, light years away, frozen at absolute zero, swirling in cosmic dust and random space rocks, that one feels the pull of existential angst, that one feels small and lonely standing on the edge of the universe, watching time unfold before your very eyes. Time stretches out in front of you, infinitely unfolding as the wind howls in your ears. On a night like this you wonder about what you do for a living, pondering the importance of your life in the grand scheme of things. Frost is forming on the windows, the moon hangs icily on the horizon, the night deepens, you sigh deeply and think dark thoughts. My muse bustles into the room, drinking whiskey, and wearing a sprig of mistletoe in her hair. "You worry way too much. Makes you a bit of a holiday wet blanket, you know." December, despite all of the holiday lights, is a dark month, and many people hate the holiday season, all that cheer, eggnog, Christmas presents, music, songs, inflatable snowmen and lawn decorations. Sometimes the holiday cheer is just a little too cheerful for words. On a night like this on the shortest day of the year, when daylight is as a premium, your thoughts turn morbid and dark. Personal philosophies, the meaning of life, your great reason for being all seem so trivial when surviving seems like a good priority. This is what winter is all about--the long winter's nights when not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. On nights like this, the mice a especially quiet because they know that their very survival depends on their ability to sleep away the dead of winter. Their own simulacrum of death is the same thing that keeps them alive. Perhaps on a night like this, it is the mice who understand what making it through the winter is all about. My muse sips her whiskey and glances over my shoulder. "Are you getting all morose and nostalgic, thinking deep thoughts about existentialism and death? You know, nobody wants to read about that stuff. You need to be writing about medieval existential stuff that nobody in their right mind will ever read. Or drink more. You never drink enough." On a night like this, one struggles to understand the way the world works, random violence, accidents, war, strife, conflict, the fiscal cliff. Nothing particularly funny about any of that. Or the Mayan prediction that tomorrow will be the end of the earth. The mice are sleeping soundly because they know that tomorrow will be another day, that nights like this are always followed by another day when the sun comes up, and everyone starts over. Maybe the meaning of life is so simple that any attempt to describe or explain it only serves to obscure it even more. So I should work more, worry less, and let my muse do her stuff. Perhaps it is our very resistance to the universe which hides its strange beauty to us. Perhaps it's on nights like this when the universe stands before us, clear, cold, frosty, magnificent, mysterious, an enigma if there ever was one.

On pumpkins

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Do you think that carving horrifying and creepy faces into large orange gourds and illuminating them from the inside out with a candle is odd? America's fascination and obsession with this bizarre, if not oddly repressive, tradition is, without a doubt, weird. No one carves faces into other large vegetables, so why mess with pumpkins? Sure, they are about the same size as a human head, they are hollow, and they are this striking orange color, but how does all of that add up to the tradition of carving an ugly face into the front of the thing? I understand that as human beings we need safe avenues of expression for our fears, repressed memories, nightmares, scary visions and the like, but carving pumpkins for Halloween is a bit of a mystery even if you invoke a completely Freudian interpretation of the carving act. The kids tend to love this activity, and as a child I always tried to outdo myself by making the fangs sharper, the eyes more evil, the nose more fiendish. In Spanish we have a word for the distorted pumpkin heads which are created: esperpento, which speaks to the exaggerated monstrosity represented by the disfigured and hideous face of the pumpkin. It's as if we need to create something truly ugly and display it for the whole world to see. The creation of the monstrous face speaks most clearly to a series of ancient harvest celebrations and the superstitious traditions associated with it that have grown into the practice of Halloween. Many sources will defend the Christian associations with the celebration of Halloween and ceremonies for the remembrance of the dead, but the actual practices of Halloween proceed from a much murkier past that has long since been forgotten that has to do with forest spirits, monsters, ghosts, and fear. The "Jack-O-Lantern" or illuminated carved pumpkin seems to embody this fall festival as people make light of what scares them, admitting that they not only fear death, but that they also fear those things that go "bump" in the night. Halloween is that opportunity to recognize our basest fears: the dark, death, wild animals, nuclear weapons, the economy, and even fear itself. People express their fears and repressions in different ways, not the least of which is carving pumpkins and later dressing up like their favorite superhero. All of this is very irrational, but who ever said that fear is rational? We carve the pumpkin because we want to control that which frightens us, so the pumpkin becomes a mirror for us as we probe the dark side to our souls in search of those things that have no face, that reside in the shadows, the moan and growl, that have sharp teeth, that shape-shift and change. The fact that we do this once a year just before the onset of winter suggests that although most of our community is populated by rational empiricists who reject all superstition and irrational practices, there are still a huge part of the human experience that is at once irrational and inexplicable—logic falls short of its goal, and we end up scooping a bunch of pumpkin innards out on the kitchen table. I think that carving pumpkins into Jack-O-Lanterns serves some psychological purpose of letting the carver “get it out of his/her system” so to speak, that carving pumpkins is a healthy psychological practice that points to mental health and a firm grasp of reality. That said, I haven’t carved a pumpkin in ten years.

On pumpkins

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Do you think that carving horrifying and creepy faces into large orange gourds and illuminating them from the inside out with a candle is odd? America's fascination and obsession with this bizarre, if not oddly repressive, tradition is, without a doubt, weird. No one carves faces into other large vegetables, so why mess with pumpkins? Sure, they are about the same size as a human head, they are hollow, and they are this striking orange color, but how does all of that add up to the tradition of carving an ugly face into the front of the thing? I understand that as human beings we need safe avenues of expression for our fears, repressed memories, nightmares, scary visions and the like, but carving pumpkins for Halloween is a bit of a mystery even if you invoke a completely Freudian interpretation of the carving act. The kids tend to love this activity, and as a child I always tried to outdo myself by making the fangs sharper, the eyes more evil, the nose more fiendish. In Spanish we have a word for the distorted pumpkin heads which are created: esperpento, which speaks to the exaggerated monstrosity represented by the disfigured and hideous face of the pumpkin. It's as if we need to create something truly ugly and display it for the whole world to see. The creation of the monstrous face speaks most clearly to a series of ancient harvest celebrations and the superstitious traditions associated with it that have grown into the practice of Halloween. Many sources will defend the Christian associations with the celebration of Halloween and ceremonies for the remembrance of the dead, but the actual practices of Halloween proceed from a much murkier past that has long since been forgotten that has to do with forest spirits, monsters, ghosts, and fear. The "Jack-O-Lantern" or illuminated carved pumpkin seems to embody this fall festival as people make light of what scares them, admitting that they not only fear death, but that they also fear those things that go "bump" in the night. Halloween is that opportunity to recognize our basest fears: the dark, death, wild animals, nuclear weapons, the economy, and even fear itself. People express their fears and repressions in different ways, not the least of which is carving pumpkins and later dressing up like their favorite superhero. All of this is very irrational, but who ever said that fear is rational? We carve the pumpkin because we want to control that which frightens us, so the pumpkin becomes a mirror for us as we probe the dark side to our souls in search of those things that have no face, that reside in the shadows, the moan and growl, that have sharp teeth, that shape-shift and change. The fact that we do this once a year just before the onset of winter suggests that although most of our community is populated by rational empiricists who reject all superstition and irrational practices, there are still a huge part of the human experience that is at once irrational and inexplicable—logic falls short of its goal, and we end up scooping a bunch of pumpkin innards out on the kitchen table. I think that carving pumpkins into Jack-O-Lanterns serves some psychological purpose of letting the carver “get it out of his/her system” so to speak, that carving pumpkins is a healthy psychological practice that points to mental health and a firm grasp of reality. That said, I haven’t carved a pumpkin in ten years.

On rising early

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I got up at 3:15 this morning. I'm not sure Ben Franklin was right when he said that early rising makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. By 4 a.m. I was in a van on my way to the Omaha airport. It was not light out yet, and no creatures were stirring, not even a mouse. My mind was so numb that I just set myself on autopilot and went with the flow. The absence of light in the morning is a bleak and helpless feeling that only gives way with the sunrise. The counter in the terminal was deserted except for a couple of very busy and cheerful airline employees who were way too friendly and expeditious for that hour of the morning. They didn't grump at all when they saw the three of us--it's always better to share the pain of any early morning flight. The people at security were just about as bored as possible--no line, no complications, no nothing. I had to sit down to tie my shoes so I wouldn't tip over. The world is a strange, if not rarefied place at 4 in the morning, lit by banks of neon, the smell of freshly brewed coffee permeating the atmosphere. All these lights and smells give a place, an airport, an unreal, surreal shine of life while the people stagger around like unhappy zombies looking for a place to hang their heads. Banks of televisions endlessly replayed the results from the previous day's sporting events. This entire simulacrum tries to simulate real life as if nothing were wrong, as if you didn't get up four hours early to catch a flight, as if you didn't feel like lying down on the floor and going to sleep. People who have the same problem are starting to show up, some pulling suitcases, others, children, most, lost in their thoughts, "Why did I buy such an early flight to Dallas--Dallas will still be there if take a flight at eleven." People play on their phones, some have laptops, a few gray anachronisms read newspapers. I sip on a cup of coffee while a bunch of fresh pastries stare at me from the stainless steel counter of the food court. It's still not five a.m., my headaches, my stomach doesn't want to drink coffee yet, and I don't care about where the couple with the five little girls is going. Time inches along as if I were caught in a space-time loop with no exit in sight, stuck in an unexplored contemporary ring in Dante's Hell set aside for errant travelers, lost children, hungry critics, and unruly writers. Existence blurs between existing and simply being. Getting up too early hurts the soul that should be communing with the angels. Too much light, too much input, not enough sleep. Rising in the dark in order to get it done is not natural, pleasant, or fun, and we do it in order to meet the rising exigencies of a society that continually rushing to its next thing, dehumanizing us all along the way. Rising early will get you there on time, but it might not make you happy.

On rising early

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I got up at 3:15 this morning. I'm not sure Ben Franklin was right when he said that early rising makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. By 4 a.m. I was in a van on my way to the Omaha airport. It was not light out yet, and no creatures were stirring, not even a mouse. My mind was so numb that I just set myself on autopilot and went with the flow. The absence of light in the morning is a bleak and helpless feeling that only gives way with the sunrise. The counter in the terminal was deserted except for a couple of very busy and cheerful airline employees who were way too friendly and expeditious for that hour of the morning. They didn't grump at all when they saw the three of us--it's always better to share the pain of any early morning flight. The people at security were just about as bored as possible--no line, no complications, no nothing. I had to sit down to tie my shoes so I wouldn't tip over. The world is a strange, if not rarefied place at 4 in the morning, lit by banks of neon, the smell of freshly brewed coffee permeating the atmosphere. All these lights and smells give a place, an airport, an unreal, surreal shine of life while the people stagger around like unhappy zombies looking for a place to hang their heads. Banks of televisions endlessly replayed the results from the previous day's sporting events. This entire simulacrum tries to simulate real life as if nothing were wrong, as if you didn't get up four hours early to catch a flight, as if you didn't feel like lying down on the floor and going to sleep. People who have the same problem are starting to show up, some pulling suitcases, others, children, most, lost in their thoughts, "Why did I buy such an early flight to Dallas--Dallas will still be there if take a flight at eleven." People play on their phones, some have laptops, a few gray anachronisms read newspapers. I sip on a cup of coffee while a bunch of fresh pastries stare at me from the stainless steel counter of the food court. It's still not five a.m., my headaches, my stomach doesn't want to drink coffee yet, and I don't care about where the couple with the five little girls is going. Time inches along as if I were caught in a space-time loop with no exit in sight, stuck in an unexplored contemporary ring in Dante's Hell set aside for errant travelers, lost children, hungry critics, and unruly writers. Existence blurs between existing and simply being. Getting up too early hurts the soul that should be communing with the angels. Too much light, too much input, not enough sleep. Rising in the dark in order to get it done is not natural, pleasant, or fun, and we do it in order to meet the rising exigencies of a society that continually rushing to its next thing, dehumanizing us all along the way. Rising early will get you there on time, but it might not make you happy.

On paper books

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Today marks the publication of the non-Potter book by author J. K. Rowling, and millions of copies have been sold, the majority being digital versions with paper copies coming in a distant second. The paradigm of the format of the best-seller has changed. Paper is no longer king, and digital e-readers of various kinds have taken the capitalist high ground. Book stores have fewer customers every day, and the paper book industry is dying. This is a shame because although e-readers are easy to carry around, there is some doubt as to the ownership of the digital versions once the owner passes on. In other words, when you die, your library goes with you. You can buy a digital book for another person, but you can't give them your copy to read. The paper book is such a beautiful invention that it seems a real shame that in ten years no one will be making or selling them anymore. Or will they? Paper books are a basic technology which works even when the batteries in your e-reader or tablet have gone flat. You can read a paper book on take-off and landing without provoking the disapproval and ire of the flight crew. There is something comfortable about flipping through the pages. Perhaps I'm am only nostalgic for a golden age of publishing in which the latest popular titles were stacked in big piles in the bookstores, and bookstores were my candy stores filled with mysteries, science fiction, biographies, histories, novels, and names such as Christie, Heinlein, Heller, Salinger, Bradbury, and Conan Doyle were everywhere. Their books populate the shelves of my house, and any given moment, I can pull one down and start reading. Nevertheless, I had over seventy books on my e-reader this summer as I traveled to Europe and only one beat-up old paperback on shipwreck in my carry-on. Just in case. Paper books are bulky and hard to move. Old books smell a little, but not always in a good way. Yet, I can take out a pencil and underline or add marginalia to my book, and I know you can do something similar with e-books, but it's just not the same. Your comments in your handwriting six, seven or ten years later can tell you a lot about who you were the last time you read that book. There are books, older titles, that I can get for free and read on my tablet, and maybe I don't want a paper copy, but I treasure my hardcopy of Catch-22, Watership Down, Ghost Story, Cry Me a River, The Stand, El nombre de la rosa, Going After Cacciato. Am I being irrational about my attachment to these silent sentries who guard the shelves of my house? They don't feel anything. They are inanimate objects, lifeless, blind. The monster that is the e-book has me torn two ways: one, very convenient, clean, light; two, without batteries you have no book at all, you can't lend it, it dissolves into nothing as you turn to dust. I have a sneaking suspicion that paper books, real books, will be around for much longer than we suspect, or is this just wishful thinking?