On putting something away in a safe place (and losing it forever)

Have you ever put something away in a safe place and lost it forever? I have lost track of the number of times this has happened to me. Now, I never put things away at all and use a top down stacking method of keeping track of stuff–I just pile it up in plain sight. Otherwise I am in danger of losing it forever. If I put something away in a safe place, I am dead certain it will be lost for at least six months, if not a year. I have lost things that I put in a safe place for good. They just disappeared and I never saw them again. I’ve lost letters, photos, bills, receipts, money, tie tacks, books, magazines, recipes, checks, keys, phones, passwords, pins, hats, socks, and a watch–in other words, just about anything that you can put away, I’ve lost it because I put it away. I one time lost a jacket that was later found hanging in a closet on a hanger–who does that, I ask? I have lost a pair of shoes for weeks only to find them sitting quietly in a front closet where I put them. I once put a set of keys in a safe place, and I’m still looking for those. I’ve lost the light bill because I put it in a safe place with the property tax bill–last I ever saw of either one. Put a library book in a safe place once, never saw it again, either–had to buy the library a new copy. I have lost thousands of pens and pencils because I put them away instead of leaving them out on the counter where they might be useful. I always left the floppy disks with my dissertation just laying about anywhere because I was afraid of losing them–never lost them. I am dead sure that the “safe place” is a mystical, imaginary place where inanimate objects go to escape reality, never to be seen or heard from again. I am also sure that the imaginary “safe place” is also fraught with danger and mystery, sucking unsuspecting objects into a mysterious vortex or fifth dimension outside of our normal time/space, vanishing them once and for all times.

On putting something away in a safe place (and losing it forever)

Have you ever put something away in a safe place and lost it forever? I have lost track of the number of times this has happened to me. Now, I never put things away at all and use a top down stacking method of keeping track of stuff–I just pile it up in plain sight. Otherwise I am in danger of losing it forever. If I put something away in a safe place, I am dead certain it will be lost for at least six months, if not a year. I have lost things that I put in a safe place for good. They just disappeared and I never saw them again. I’ve lost letters, photos, bills, receipts, money, tie tacks, books, magazines, recipes, checks, keys, phones, passwords, pins, hats, socks, and a watch–in other words, just about anything that you can put away, I’ve lost it because I put it away. I one time lost a jacket that was later found hanging in a closet on a hanger–who does that, I ask? I have lost a pair of shoes for weeks only to find them sitting quietly in a front closet where I put them. I once put a set of keys in a safe place, and I’m still looking for those. I’ve lost the light bill because I put it in a safe place with the property tax bill–last I ever saw of either one. Put a library book in a safe place once, never saw it again, either–had to buy the library a new copy. I have lost thousands of pens and pencils because I put them away instead of leaving them out on the counter where they might be useful. I always left the floppy disks with my dissertation just laying about anywhere because I was afraid of losing them–never lost them. I am dead sure that the “safe place” is a mystical, imaginary place where inanimate objects go to escape reality, never to be seen or heard from again. I am also sure that the imaginary “safe place” is also fraught with danger and mystery, sucking unsuspecting objects into a mysterious vortex or fifth dimension outside of our normal time/space, vanishing them once and for all times.

On the good old days

Today, nostalgia is an industry–books, movies, theme parks, television–anything that will evoke a time gone by when we thought everything was golden, that everything was better. Of course, our memories play tricks on us. Those “good old days” where perhaps only good because we were all so young, and it seemed like we could do anything–climb mountains, swim oceans, slay dragons, solve differential equations, resolve the enigma of the Sphinx. We were thin and energetic, full of vim, vigor, and vitriol, and we could eat anything and not put on a pound.Yet we were also inexperienced, foolish, and innocent. I remember my trip to Mallorca almost thirty-four years ago as if it were yesterday, but when I look at that picture of that guy who I used to be, I haven’t the slightest clue as to who he really was. Those days were good because we were not yet cynical and sad, disillusioned or unhappy. We had plans, a future. Life, however, seldom cooperates and gets in the way of the best laid plans a person can make. How is it possible that all of that time has passed in the blinking of an eye? Life is life, and we live it a day at a time, working, studying, eating, cleaning, picking up, exploring, singing, planning, loving, traveling, arriving, and then we start all over again, and so on. Life will not be better when the week is over, or when we get our next promotion, or when we get married, or when we get a new job. Life is happening every day whether you care to notice or not. Philosopher, poets, artists, have been telling us this with every new thing they create, but we fall victim to our own distractions and worry about when our lives are really going to start, or we obsess about a past that never existed in the first place. Perhaps the best thing to do with the past is remember it, but not idealize it. The past is an unknown landscape that exists only as a construction of our imaginations and our desire to be happy once more. If you go there too often, you will eventually crash in the present, bitter and tired. I prefer to remember the good old days as just that, the good old days, and some of it was very, very good.

On the good old days

Today, nostalgia is an industry–books, movies, theme parks, television–anything that will evoke a time gone by when we thought everything was golden, that everything was better. Of course, our memories play tricks on us. Those “good old days” where perhaps only good because we were all so young, and it seemed like we could do anything–climb mountains, swim oceans, slay dragons, solve differential equations, resolve the enigma of the Sphinx. We were thin and energetic, full of vim, vigor, and vitriol, and we could eat anything and not put on a pound.Yet we were also inexperienced, foolish, and innocent. I remember my trip to Mallorca almost thirty-four years ago as if it were yesterday, but when I look at that picture of that guy who I used to be, I haven’t the slightest clue as to who he really was. Those days were good because we were not yet cynical and sad, disillusioned or unhappy. We had plans, a future. Life, however, seldom cooperates and gets in the way of the best laid plans a person can make. How is it possible that all of that time has passed in the blinking of an eye? Life is life, and we live it a day at a time, working, studying, eating, cleaning, picking up, exploring, singing, planning, loving, traveling, arriving, and then we start all over again, and so on. Life will not be better when the week is over, or when we get our next promotion, or when we get married, or when we get a new job. Life is happening every day whether you care to notice or not. Philosopher, poets, artists, have been telling us this with every new thing they create, but we fall victim to our own distractions and worry about when our lives are really going to start, or we obsess about a past that never existed in the first place. Perhaps the best thing to do with the past is remember it, but not idealize it. The past is an unknown landscape that exists only as a construction of our imaginations and our desire to be happy once more. If you go there too often, you will eventually crash in the present, bitter and tired. I prefer to remember the good old days as just that, the good old days, and some of it was very, very good.

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.”

On Boston

As I write this chaos continues to assail Boston, even in the wake of the tragic bombing of the Marathon this past Monday. Perhaps the added chaos this evening is related to that bombing. The FBI seemed to be hot on the trail of a couple of suspects today, so it would not be surprising to find out that a shooting at MIT and further police action in Watertown was related to the terror bombing of Monday’s race. Ever since moving to Spain in 1979 I have had to deal with terrorists, bombs, shootings, and all the associated law enforcement that go with the human tragedy of senseless violence in the name of some irrational nationalism or imaginary political ideology. In the end, all you have is dead innocent victims that had nothing to do with any of that fruitless political struggle. Terrorism destroys both the lives of the innocents and their families and the terrorists themselves, who turn themselves into common criminals because they see their only answer to life’s difficult questions to be violence. Since they cannot attack an entire country, they attack the innocent, a slaughter of lambs, if you will, but what they fail to recognize is that no government worth its salt will ever give into terrorists. The police just work all that much harder to destroy the terrorists, which really only means that the prisons and jails fill up with terrorists, the political objectives become obscure or forgotten, and new terrorists are born to take the place of those who are dead or in jail. Terrorism is a snake eating its own tail, self-perpetuating, blind, filled with faulty thinking and irrational objectives, and it turns normal people into common criminals–murderers, thieves, liars. In the end, no one is particularly happy with the results. The terrorists are dead or in jail, their objectives unfulfilled; the victims are dead or grieving for with the loss of a loved one; law enforcement is frustrated because they could never prevent any of it–they only get clean-up duties. The big problem with bombers is that they never really understand that no matter how much they hurt the people they hate, those people will, eventually, bounce back. Those who have died are beyond reach of pain and their struggles are over. Those who have lost limbs will learn to walk again, readjust their lives, have families, love, grow old, and will eventually die of old age in God’s good time. And all those idealistic political agendas will have served nothing, nothing will change, nothing will be achieved but the destruction of some lives. The funny/ironic part about terrorists is that they are just normal people until they let themselves be lead astray by faulty irrational thinking and a belief that political goals can be achieved through violence. Most political extremism is illusory, foolish, irrational, vacuous, superficial, and/or unrealistic. Bombs will never change the basic objectives of a free market capitalism. If fact, I would hazard to say that terrorism does the exact opposite of what it proposes to do and reinforces democratic objectives and strengthens governments and law enforcement. In the meantime, however, our hearts are broken, our tears burn, the lump in our throats does not go away, and we stare at the ground in shame and horror, unable to understand why our world is so imperfect and broken.

On Boston

As I write this chaos continues to assail Boston, even in the wake of the tragic bombing of the Marathon this past Monday. Perhaps the added chaos this evening is related to that bombing. The FBI seemed to be hot on the trail of a couple of suspects today, so it would not be surprising to find out that a shooting at MIT and further police action in Watertown was related to the terror bombing of Monday’s race. Ever since moving to Spain in 1979 I have had to deal with terrorists, bombs, shootings, and all the associated law enforcement that go with the human tragedy of senseless violence in the name of some irrational nationalism or imaginary political ideology. In the end, all you have is dead innocent victims that had nothing to do with any of that fruitless political struggle. Terrorism destroys both the lives of the innocents and their families and the terrorists themselves, who turn themselves into common criminals because they see their only answer to life’s difficult questions to be violence. Since they cannot attack an entire country, they attack the innocent, a slaughter of lambs, if you will, but what they fail to recognize is that no government worth its salt will ever give into terrorists. The police just work all that much harder to destroy the terrorists, which really only means that the prisons and jails fill up with terrorists, the political objectives become obscure or forgotten, and new terrorists are born to take the place of those who are dead or in jail. Terrorism is a snake eating its own tail, self-perpetuating, blind, filled with faulty thinking and irrational objectives, and it turns normal people into common criminals–murderers, thieves, liars. In the end, no one is particularly happy with the results. The terrorists are dead or in jail, their objectives unfulfilled; the victims are dead or grieving for with the loss of a loved one; law enforcement is frustrated because they could never prevent any of it–they only get clean-up duties. The big problem with bombers is that they never really understand that no matter how much they hurt the people they hate, those people will, eventually, bounce back. Those who have died are beyond reach of pain and their struggles are over. Those who have lost limbs will learn to walk again, readjust their lives, have families, love, grow old, and will eventually die of old age in God’s good time. And all those idealistic political agendas will have served nothing, nothing will change, nothing will be achieved but the destruction of some lives. The funny/ironic part about terrorists is that they are just normal people until they let themselves be lead astray by faulty irrational thinking and a belief that political goals can be achieved through violence. Most political extremism is illusory, foolish, irrational, vacuous, superficial, and/or unrealistic. Bombs will never change the basic objectives of a free market capitalism. If fact, I would hazard to say that terrorism does the exact opposite of what it proposes to do and reinforces democratic objectives and strengthens governments and law enforcement. In the meantime, however, our hearts are broken, our tears burn, the lump in our throats does not go away, and we stare at the ground in shame and horror, unable to understand why our world is so imperfect and broken.

In Memoriam–Suzanna Nelson, 1990-2013

As many of you may know (or not) my teaching assistant for the past three years, Suzanna Nelson, died out in San Diego last week. I wrote the following “planctus” to her, trying to figure out how I feel about her death at such a young age, being my student and friend. I have lost students before–we all have, but this one was special, fearless, intense, memorable. Your star burned so brightly, a supernova that dazzled. A flamboyant fashionista hipster, you even had a pair of glasses with no lenses. You handled a cell phone as if it were a sword, texting at the speed of light. Now your star has gone out and your death humbles and confuses me. For whatever forces brought you to Baylor, sheer chance, fate, predestination, coincidence, I will always be so grateful for your presence these four years. You arrived as a child, but there was always an older person behind those eyes who wanted to know things, who wanted to belong, who wanted to be loved, who wanted to make sense of a chaotic and cruel world. They were four years of steady tumult, of chaos, of conversations over coffee, text messages, and we talked about art,Shakespeare, horses, San Francisco, equal rights, women’s rights, philosophy, God, whatever happened to be on your mind. Your horses, you were so proud of your team, bringing me posters which now hang in my office, mute testimony to both your continuing presence and your profound absence. Just like a dad, I was so proud of your success. Your generosity was broad, kind, uncompromising. Your loyalty was unbending. You sometimes trusted my judgment, and I appreciated that–you didn’t trust very easily. You could be a royal pain in the ass, but I always forgave you for talking back or acting out because that was my job. You always questioned me when you thought I was wrong, and rightly so. We read so many things together–Augustine, Boccaccio, Chaucer, Petrarch, Wilde, Bradbury, Coelho. You brought your skepticism to bear. It was your way, but you listened. You let me know when I was defending the establishment, and that I had no right to do that. Your intellect was keen, sharp, reactive. You worried about each class of kids that you cared for–they are so young and naive, you always said. Will they ever learn? Now, you are gone,and we who are left cannot fathom what has happened. You graduated last May,and since neither you nor I are good with goodbyes, we said our fair-wells and just walked away, assuming that we would drift together again at some point. Our four-year collaboration as professor and student was over. You left Baylor, you left Waco, and you returned to California, and something went wrong. I will not try to ponder what that was. You are now beyond earthly speculation, so it doesn´t matter. I pray to God that when your crisis came and you were afraid and lonely and desperate, that God was with you. I pray also that God will grant peace to your family and friends in their time of sorrow and grief. I will remember you always. My tears are for myself, to be shed in private, but I am profoundly sad because I know you will never show up in my office door again. You are now beyond judgment, beyond any mortal bonds, beyond reproach, cares, worries or tears. Your struggle is over. Your Baylor family adored you, and whether you ever knew it or not, but I think you did, we deeply cared for you. In the end we are left with memories and our own sorrow. As one of the more famous characters from Spanish literature says while lamenting the death of his daughter, “¿porque me dexaste penado? ¿porque me dexaste triste e solo? in hac lachrimarum valle.”

In Memoriam–Suzanna Nelson, 1990-2013

As many of you may know (or not) my teaching assistant for the past three years, Suzanna Nelson, died out in San Diego last week. I wrote the following “planctus” to her, trying to figure out how I feel about her death at such a young age, being my student and friend. I have lost students before–we all have, but this one was special, fearless, intense, memorable. Your star burned so brightly, a supernova that dazzled. A flamboyant fashionista hipster, you even had a pair of glasses with no lenses. You handled a cell phone as if it were a sword, texting at the speed of light. Now your star has gone out and your death humbles and confuses me. For whatever forces brought you to Baylor, sheer chance, fate, predestination, coincidence, I will always be so grateful for your presence these four years. You arrived as a child, but there was always an older person behind those eyes who wanted to know things, who wanted to belong, who wanted to be loved, who wanted to make sense of a chaotic and cruel world. They were four years of steady tumult, of chaos, of conversations over coffee, text messages, and we talked about art,Shakespeare, horses, San Francisco, equal rights, women’s rights, philosophy, God, whatever happened to be on your mind. Your horses, you were so proud of your team, bringing me posters which now hang in my office, mute testimony to both your continuing presence and your profound absence. Just like a dad, I was so proud of your success. Your generosity was broad, kind, uncompromising. Your loyalty was unbending. You sometimes trusted my judgment, and I appreciated that–you didn’t trust very easily. You could be a royal pain in the ass, but I always forgave you for talking back or acting out because that was my job. You always questioned me when you thought I was wrong, and rightly so. We read so many things together–Augustine, Boccaccio, Chaucer, Petrarch, Wilde, Bradbury, Coelho. You brought your skepticism to bear. It was your way, but you listened. You let me know when I was defending the establishment, and that I had no right to do that. Your intellect was keen, sharp, reactive. You worried about each class of kids that you cared for–they are so young and naive, you always said. Will they ever learn? Now, you are gone,and we who are left cannot fathom what has happened. You graduated last May,and since neither you nor I are good with goodbyes, we said our fair-wells and just walked away, assuming that we would drift together again at some point. Our four-year collaboration as professor and student was over. You left Baylor, you left Waco, and you returned to California, and something went wrong. I will not try to ponder what that was. You are now beyond earthly speculation, so it doesn´t matter. I pray to God that when your crisis came and you were afraid and lonely and desperate, that God was with you. I pray also that God will grant peace to your family and friends in their time of sorrow and grief. I will remember you always. My tears are for myself, to be shed in private, but I am profoundly sad because I know you will never show up in my office door again. You are now beyond judgment, beyond any mortal bonds, beyond reproach, cares, worries or tears. Your struggle is over. Your Baylor family adored you, and whether you ever knew it or not, but I think you did, we deeply cared for you. In the end we are left with memories and our own sorrow. As one of the more famous characters from Spanish literature says while lamenting the death of his daughter, “¿porque me dexaste penado? ¿porque me dexaste triste e solo? in hac lachrimarum valle.”