On mystery

Human beings are intrigued by the unknown and strive endlessly to know more, to clear up the mystery. Yet, we are also plagued by the unknown, the inexplicable, the mysterious. Modern manifestations of pop culture delve deeply in the mystery genre, and weird pop culture delves into cryptozoology and make-believe monsters, trading in ancient astronauts and Bermuda Triangles. Many mysteries are not mysteries at all when seen against the background of real science and rational empiricism. A person disappears, a bank is robbed, someone lies dead in their own living room, a painting is stolen, the power goes out, a window get broken, the car won’t start, your stomach hurts, and you don’t have an explanation for any of it. A letter is lost in the mail, the washing machine breaks, the roof leaks. We have a hundred mysteries around us all of the time: a strange noise in the night, a familiar looking face at the mall that you haven’t seen in twenty years, a ringing phone but no one answers. We are constantly trying to solve one mystery or another. One of the greatest fictional detectives of all times, Sherlock Holmes, is the modern model and poster boy for mystery solving and rational empiricism. Holmes’ success drove his creator, Conan Doyle, to distraction because he had no idea his detective would turn into one of the wildly successful characters of all time. The mystery genre publishes thousands of new titles every year–the reading public can’t get enough. Mysteries are probably popular because the mirror the chaos of daily life, and since we can’t bring order to real life, we live vicariously through the detectives that bring order to their fictional world. We feel better about our own chaos as order is restored when the detective lets us know that the butler did it.

On mystery

Human beings are intrigued by the unknown and strive endlessly to know more, to clear up the mystery. Yet, we are also plagued by the unknown, the inexplicable, the mysterious. Modern manifestations of pop culture delve deeply in the mystery genre, and weird pop culture delves into cryptozoology and make-believe monsters, trading in ancient astronauts and Bermuda Triangles. Many mysteries are not mysteries at all when seen against the background of real science and rational empiricism. A person disappears, a bank is robbed, someone lies dead in their own living room, a painting is stolen, the power goes out, a window get broken, the car won’t start, your stomach hurts, and you don’t have an explanation for any of it. A letter is lost in the mail, the washing machine breaks, the roof leaks. We have a hundred mysteries around us all of the time: a strange noise in the night, a familiar looking face at the mall that you haven’t seen in twenty years, a ringing phone but no one answers. We are constantly trying to solve one mystery or another. One of the greatest fictional detectives of all times, Sherlock Holmes, is the modern model and poster boy for mystery solving and rational empiricism. Holmes’ success drove his creator, Conan Doyle, to distraction because he had no idea his detective would turn into one of the wildly successful characters of all time. The mystery genre publishes thousands of new titles every year–the reading public can’t get enough. Mysteries are probably popular because the mirror the chaos of daily life, and since we can’t bring order to real life, we live vicariously through the detectives that bring order to their fictional world. We feel better about our own chaos as order is restored when the detective lets us know that the butler did it.

On fruit

When asked about my favorite fruit, I’m sure I would have to say fresh cherries with strawberries running a strong second with the kiwi coming in third. Can you ever get enough fruit? I suppose we should ask Adam, but he’s not here, so we’ll move on. Apples and oranges, bananas and pineapple, I can already feel the juice running down my chin. Nature’s own fresh candy, it’s sweet and delicious, a delight to the sense of taste and smell, touch to a certain extent. Not a huge fan of mango, but it’s because I’m allergic. Grapes, watermelon, lemons, limes, grapefruit, pomegranate. Fruit is a dark object of sensuous desire, the colors and textures yearn to split and eaten, juice running everywhere, down your chin, your hands and elbows, you grab for a napkin to clean up. It’s the sugar, of course, which we crave. Eat a banana–it has one of the highest sugar contents in the fruit world. What redeems fruit are all the vitamins and minerals they contain. I also think that sugary fruit, the object of desire, is redeemed by its aesthetics and its taste. The taste of a ripe grapefruit, beautifully red strawberries, sweet white grapes, or that perfect apple are all astonishingly different and astonishingly wonderful. No one will mistake one for the other, but it is rather rare to meet someone who doesn’t like fruit. The textures are also all different: raspberries are not at all like melon, and no one will mistake a peach for a pear, in the dark or with the lights on.

On fruit

When asked about my favorite fruit, I’m sure I would have to say fresh cherries with strawberries running a strong second with the kiwi coming in third. Can you ever get enough fruit? I suppose we should ask Adam, but he’s not here, so we’ll move on. Apples and oranges, bananas and pineapple, I can already feel the juice running down my chin. Nature’s own fresh candy, it’s sweet and delicious, a delight to the sense of taste and smell, touch to a certain extent. Not a huge fan of mango, but it’s because I’m allergic. Grapes, watermelon, lemons, limes, grapefruit, pomegranate. Fruit is a dark object of sensuous desire, the colors and textures yearn to split and eaten, juice running everywhere, down your chin, your hands and elbows, you grab for a napkin to clean up. It’s the sugar, of course, which we crave. Eat a banana–it has one of the highest sugar contents in the fruit world. What redeems fruit are all the vitamins and minerals they contain. I also think that sugary fruit, the object of desire, is redeemed by its aesthetics and its taste. The taste of a ripe grapefruit, beautifully red strawberries, sweet white grapes, or that perfect apple are all astonishingly different and astonishingly wonderful. No one will mistake one for the other, but it is rather rare to meet someone who doesn’t like fruit. The textures are also all different: raspberries are not at all like melon, and no one will mistake a peach for a pear, in the dark or with the lights on.

On the bildungsroman

A German term for the “coming of age” novel, the bildungsroman as a genre is as old as time, as timeless as humanity itself. Customs, traditions, a rite of passage, almost all cultures celebrate the liminal state of the “tweener” in their journey to adulthood. Novelists have pursued the topic of with a certain energy, if not enthusiasm. I would venture to say that most novelists are trying to understand their own coming of age by writing that experience into a work of art that may or may not mirror their own. Perhaps they a looking for redemption, perhaps they are looking for sacrifice, but regardless of their intent, they have left a broad trail of broken dreams, failed intentions, and busted lives. Coming of age is that moment experience supplants innocence, and the grown child looks out at the world with new eyes. The transition may be rocky, painful, full of disillusion, regret, a place where dreams go to die. We find out that we are mortal, imperfect, and finite, but what is worse, we find out who we really might be. The problem is that all young children will eventually turn into adults whether they want to or not. During that transition, youngsters are asked to make a series of decisions about their future, for good or bad. In theory, the bildungsroman is about those experiences and those changes that shape a young person, resulting in a new being. Do you have a favorite “coming-of-age” novel? I’d like to hear about it.

On the bildungsroman

A German term for the “coming of age” novel, the bildungsroman as a genre is as old as time, as timeless as humanity itself. Customs, traditions, a rite of passage, almost all cultures celebrate the liminal state of the “tweener” in their journey to adulthood. Novelists have pursued the topic of with a certain energy, if not enthusiasm. I would venture to say that most novelists are trying to understand their own coming of age by writing that experience into a work of art that may or may not mirror their own. Perhaps they a looking for redemption, perhaps they are looking for sacrifice, but regardless of their intent, they have left a broad trail of broken dreams, failed intentions, and busted lives. Coming of age is that moment experience supplants innocence, and the grown child looks out at the world with new eyes. The transition may be rocky, painful, full of disillusion, regret, a place where dreams go to die. We find out that we are mortal, imperfect, and finite, but what is worse, we find out who we really might be. The problem is that all young children will eventually turn into adults whether they want to or not. During that transition, youngsters are asked to make a series of decisions about their future, for good or bad. In theory, the bildungsroman is about those experiences and those changes that shape a young person, resulting in a new being. Do you have a favorite “coming-of-age” novel? I’d like to hear about it.

On January

The first month of the year is also the coldest month of the year in the northern hemisphere. This is even more true as a frigid arctic vortex spirals out of northern Canada and crawls into the midwest with unbelievably cold temperatures. Between the mean-spirited arctic wind, the cruel sub-zero temperatures, and the relentlessly ironic snow, a person might make plans to move to Arizona sometime in the very near future, if not yesterday. Living in the middle of a January winter is a challenge, but is it a challenge everyone wants to face? Since I now live in Texas, I don’t have to deal with winter. Perhaps it will be a little chilly tonight, but what’s one night compared to ninety nights of cold, black ice? I totally understand neighbors here in Texas who have vowed to never live in ice and snow again–they hate it. Yet, there is beauty in winter, and I know many people who just laugh in the face of sub-zero temperatures and endless drifts of snow as trivial circumstances that defeat only the weakest of minds. Are they sturdy or foolhardy? I couldn’t say, but I see the beauty in having four seasons–you really learn to appreciate the warm sun in spring, and frosty nights of October. Change is good, invigorating, makes you feel alive. I see January as just another challenge, no better or worse than 105F in the shade in central Texas in August.

On January

The first month of the year is also the coldest month of the year in the northern hemisphere. This is even more true as a frigid arctic vortex spirals out of northern Canada and crawls into the midwest with unbelievably cold temperatures. Between the mean-spirited arctic wind, the cruel sub-zero temperatures, and the relentlessly ironic snow, a person might make plans to move to Arizona sometime in the very near future, if not yesterday. Living in the middle of a January winter is a challenge, but is it a challenge everyone wants to face? Since I now live in Texas, I don’t have to deal with winter. Perhaps it will be a little chilly tonight, but what’s one night compared to ninety nights of cold, black ice? I totally understand neighbors here in Texas who have vowed to never live in ice and snow again–they hate it. Yet, there is beauty in winter, and I know many people who just laugh in the face of sub-zero temperatures and endless drifts of snow as trivial circumstances that defeat only the weakest of minds. Are they sturdy or foolhardy? I couldn’t say, but I see the beauty in having four seasons–you really learn to appreciate the warm sun in spring, and frosty nights of October. Change is good, invigorating, makes you feel alive. I see January as just another challenge, no better or worse than 105F in the shade in central Texas in August.

On American Pie

You can go read the critical explanations of what Don McLean’s song, “American Pie,” is all about–Buddy Holly, Dylan, the Stones, the sixties, but I don’t think that most people think about those things today when they listen to the song. I imagine that most people think about lost loves, youth, music they loved, ideals, tragedy, religion, and a host of other associations which the broad metaphors and wide-open tropes of the song suggest. The beauty of the song does not lie in the exact meaning of each reference–the jester=Dylan–but in the voice that wants to tell a story about lost innocence and cynical experience. As adults we listen to this song, and some piece of it resonates with the things that have happened to us: a first girl friend, music, a pick-up truck, a glass of whiskey. What matters is that we listen to that voice which tells us that “for ten years, we’ve been on our own,” and we know that we are no longer young, no longer under the protection of our parents, no longer in the possession of our youthful ideals. We feel empty, rage, read too much bad news from our doorstep, seen too many widows on the nightly news. “American Pie” is about what is lost with age. This is the common experience which is shared with everyone who listens to the song. Each person fills in the blanks with the failures and losses in their own life. What makes the song special, however, what makes it stand apart from the pop music fluff of the seventies, is the song’s ability to evoke that period in everyone’s life when everything was lived so intensely, when everything was a drama, when you could still “kick off your shoes and dance,” when you still might wear a pink carnation. There is no remedy for the loss of innocence, and experience has taught us that although those high ideals we might have harbored in our youth were hot and burning, that life is a little easier to live without those preoccupations. Yet the loss of innocence is also a bitter affair when you realize how foolishly you acted, how unrealistic you were about the way the world worked, and how bitter experience can really be–“My hands were clenched in fists of rage.”

On American Pie

You can go read the critical explanations of what Don McLean’s song, “American Pie,” is all about–Buddy Holly, Dylan, the Stones, the sixties, but I don’t think that most people think about those things today when they listen to the song. I imagine that most people think about lost loves, youth, music they loved, ideals, tragedy, religion, and a host of other associations which the broad metaphors and wide-open tropes of the song suggest. The beauty of the song does not lie in the exact meaning of each reference–the jester=Dylan–but in the voice that wants to tell a story about lost innocence and cynical experience. As adults we listen to this song, and some piece of it resonates with the things that have happened to us: a first girl friend, music, a pick-up truck, a glass of whiskey. What matters is that we listen to that voice which tells us that “for ten years, we’ve been on our own,” and we know that we are no longer young, no longer under the protection of our parents, no longer in the possession of our youthful ideals. We feel empty, rage, read too much bad news from our doorstep, seen too many widows on the nightly news. “American Pie” is about what is lost with age. This is the common experience which is shared with everyone who listens to the song. Each person fills in the blanks with the failures and losses in their own life. What makes the song special, however, what makes it stand apart from the pop music fluff of the seventies, is the song’s ability to evoke that period in everyone’s life when everything was lived so intensely, when everything was a drama, when you could still “kick off your shoes and dance,” when you still might wear a pink carnation. There is no remedy for the loss of innocence, and experience has taught us that although those high ideals we might have harbored in our youth were hot and burning, that life is a little easier to live without those preoccupations. Yet the loss of innocence is also a bitter affair when you realize how foolishly you acted, how unrealistic you were about the way the world worked, and how bitter experience can really be–“My hands were clenched in fists of rage.”