On the end of the world (or maybe not)

This may be the last note I ever write, or maybe not. That lunar eclipse last night has a lot of people worried about about the end of times, the end of the world, the second coming, the apocalypse. Some think that the full red moon was one of the signs of the end of the world. I must say, though, I have my doubts since normally occuring astronomic phenomenon are both predictable and regular. In other words, since time begin this lunar eclipse was on the calendar for last night–no way to avoid it, no way to be surprised by it. Since the moon goes around the earth and the two of them go around the sun, it is only logical that at some point the earth would come between the moon and sun. It only stands to reason, then, that there was absolutely nothing special or mystical about last night’s lunar eclipse–simple astronomical physical mechanics of planets orbiting other planets–no mystery here. The fact that the moon turned a reddish color is also irrelevant–red light waves are the longest and refract easily in the earth’s atmosphere, lighting the dark moon. Again, no mystery here at all. Stellar and planetary mechanics are naturally occuring phenomena that are predictable and describable and fall into a science that we understand pretty well. This is not a sign of the end of times, not a sign of the coming apocalypse, not a sign of any kind–good or bad. Unfortunately, people have tendency to see “signs” where there are none–black cats, broken mirrors, tea leaves, tarot cards, calendar dates, white whales, spilled salt, raining frogs, ripped pants, falling silverware. When are we going to get it through out heads that there are no such things as “signs” of the future? So I guess I’ll just have to keep writing.

On the end of the world (or maybe not)

This may be the last note I ever write, or maybe not. That lunar eclipse last night has a lot of people worried about about the end of times, the end of the world, the second coming, the apocalypse. Some think that the full red moon was one of the signs of the end of the world. I must say, though, I have my doubts since normally occuring astronomic phenomenon are both predictable and regular. In other words, since time begin this lunar eclipse was on the calendar for last night–no way to avoid it, no way to be surprised by it. Since the moon goes around the earth and the two of them go around the sun, it is only logical that at some point the earth would come between the moon and sun. It only stands to reason, then, that there was absolutely nothing special or mystical about last night’s lunar eclipse–simple astronomical physical mechanics of planets orbiting other planets–no mystery here. The fact that the moon turned a reddish color is also irrelevant–red light waves are the longest and refract easily in the earth’s atmosphere, lighting the dark moon. Again, no mystery here at all. Stellar and planetary mechanics are naturally occuring phenomena that are predictable and describable and fall into a science that we understand pretty well. This is not a sign of the end of times, not a sign of the coming apocalypse, not a sign of any kind–good or bad. Unfortunately, people have tendency to see “signs” where there are none–black cats, broken mirrors, tea leaves, tarot cards, calendar dates, white whales, spilled salt, raining frogs, ripped pants, falling silverware. When are we going to get it through out heads that there are no such things as “signs” of the future? So I guess I’ll just have to keep writing.

On the wind

The wind is not your friend. The wind has been blowing with quite a bit of force in central Texas, whipping up brush fires, dust, dirt, and tumble weeds. I walked for nearly an hour yesterday in a stiff breeze that was blowing from the east. In Spain they say the wind can drive you mad if you let it. They even gave it a name, the “Tramontana.” While I lived in Minnesota, I always feared a sharp “tramontana” because on a cold day, it could be quite lethal. The still air temperature could often be rather reasonable, but a stiff north breeze at 20 to 30 miles per hour could make being outside a really rough business. Yet the wind is blind, blows on the just and the unjust alike, causing a person to zip up their jacket, raise their collar, and stuff their hands into their pockets. I’ve seen perfectly beautiful days ruined by a strong wind that blows everything around, ruins your picnic, brings rain to the parade, drives a gentle snow into a horizontal frenzy, whips up deadly whitecaps on the lake. Strong winds will ruin a perfectly good run, turning it into a torturous exercise in pain, endurance, and will. Sometimes you cannot put on enough clothing to blot out the effects of a cold north wind that started off somewhere in Ontario and is making a clean sweep of the central plains. Evil winds will wreck your garden, drop hail on your unsuspecting head, ruin your kite flying aspirations, ground your flight to Chicago, and tear the roof off of your garage. High winds were the bane of medieval cathedral architects who were worried about their new high structures–cathedral walls make great sails, which is unintentional, but it could be fatal. Today, architects play with all sorts of strange shapes in an attempt to minimize wind damage and baffle mother nature just long enough so she won’t blow down their buildings. The wind is, of course, a natural by-product of an active atmosphere of a spinning planet as high pressure chases low pressure, seeking to release energy and go to entropy. The problem is that human beings are trying to live in the middle of all this active energy, which can be either good or bad. Good if you are sailing or drying laundry, maybe flying a kite, but bad if you are running into it and have a mile or more to go before you can change direction. The wind can blow a truck off a road, tip over trees, cause cars to fly, break windows, scatter your lawn furniture. Yet, what is more comforting than a light breeze on a warm summer night? Is there anything more comforting than the rustle of a breeze blowing through the tree tops at the end of a summer day? Wind is, however, about disorder and chaos, out of which very little good ever comes. Disorder and chaos speak to our inability to control anything at all. Control is an illusion that the wind has come to destroy. We transfer our own insecurities about life onto metaphors involving the wind because the wind seems to exemplify all that is fragile and ephemeral in life. The wind comes and goes without explanation, much like Fortune itself, which is as inexplicable and as arbitrary as a light summer breeze that might cool your sweaty brow and give comfort to your tired bones. Just as the wind can bring destruction and tragedy, it might also bring a cooling breeze that lightens the heart and give hope to the soul. What we cannot predict, ever, is when and where the wind might blow, whether it is an ill-wind or a gentle breeze, whether we will have to zip up or open a window.

On the wind

The wind is not your friend. The wind has been blowing with quite a bit of force in central Texas, whipping up brush fires, dust, dirt, and tumble weeds. I walked for nearly an hour yesterday in a stiff breeze that was blowing from the east. In Spain they say the wind can drive you mad if you let it. They even gave it a name, the “Tramontana.” While I lived in Minnesota, I always feared a sharp “tramontana” because on a cold day, it could be quite lethal. The still air temperature could often be rather reasonable, but a stiff north breeze at 20 to 30 miles per hour could make being outside a really rough business. Yet the wind is blind, blows on the just and the unjust alike, causing a person to zip up their jacket, raise their collar, and stuff their hands into their pockets. I’ve seen perfectly beautiful days ruined by a strong wind that blows everything around, ruins your picnic, brings rain to the parade, drives a gentle snow into a horizontal frenzy, whips up deadly whitecaps on the lake. Strong winds will ruin a perfectly good run, turning it into a torturous exercise in pain, endurance, and will. Sometimes you cannot put on enough clothing to blot out the effects of a cold north wind that started off somewhere in Ontario and is making a clean sweep of the central plains. Evil winds will wreck your garden, drop hail on your unsuspecting head, ruin your kite flying aspirations, ground your flight to Chicago, and tear the roof off of your garage. High winds were the bane of medieval cathedral architects who were worried about their new high structures–cathedral walls make great sails, which is unintentional, but it could be fatal. Today, architects play with all sorts of strange shapes in an attempt to minimize wind damage and baffle mother nature just long enough so she won’t blow down their buildings. The wind is, of course, a natural by-product of an active atmosphere of a spinning planet as high pressure chases low pressure, seeking to release energy and go to entropy. The problem is that human beings are trying to live in the middle of all this active energy, which can be either good or bad. Good if you are sailing or drying laundry, maybe flying a kite, but bad if you are running into it and have a mile or more to go before you can change direction. The wind can blow a truck off a road, tip over trees, cause cars to fly, break windows, scatter your lawn furniture. Yet, what is more comforting than a light breeze on a warm summer night? Is there anything more comforting than the rustle of a breeze blowing through the tree tops at the end of a summer day? Wind is, however, about disorder and chaos, out of which very little good ever comes. Disorder and chaos speak to our inability to control anything at all. Control is an illusion that the wind has come to destroy. We transfer our own insecurities about life onto metaphors involving the wind because the wind seems to exemplify all that is fragile and ephemeral in life. The wind comes and goes without explanation, much like Fortune itself, which is as inexplicable and as arbitrary as a light summer breeze that might cool your sweaty brow and give comfort to your tired bones. Just as the wind can bring destruction and tragedy, it might also bring a cooling breeze that lightens the heart and give hope to the soul. What we cannot predict, ever, is when and where the wind might blow, whether it is an ill-wind or a gentle breeze, whether we will have to zip up or open a window.

On black cats

Black cats seem to be an evolutionary oddity.  Being as black as night doesn’t seem to be the best camouflage for a predator, especially in daylight.  The fact that there are black cats seems to contradict this idea, but natural selection plays no favorites: those will qualities that will promote the production of the next generation will be those qualities that are passed on, and although natural selection is not really that simple, it does raise the question, why black cats? What is it about black cats that makes them successful?  Does the success of the black cat lie outside of the cat itself?  In other words, have people influenced their success in a positive way because people like black cats? Are black cats aesthetically pleasing to have around?  Of course, some superstitious people have created the myth that black cats are bad luck, especially if they cross your path, that black cats are associated with witchcraft, that black cats are incarnated evil spirits, especially evil female spirits. I do not believe in good or bad luck. These are external values that we create in our minds to explain the things that happen in our lives, but good and bad things happen, and many accidental things–weather, geophysics, third parties–are completely out of our control, but good luck or bad luck are inventions of our minds that have nothing to do with the empirical world.  Bad luck is nothing but a specific non-objective interpretation of events. That we would associate a certain color animal with bad luck is irrational and frivolous. A black cat in Texas, for example, just needs to stay out of the sun, but the completely black cat is a study in feline design, a predator with sharp teeth and nasty claws ready to kill at a moment’s notice, just like any other cat, Tabby or Persian, white or party-color. In other words, black cats are not much different than Bengal Tiger, except they can purr, tigers roar. I imagine that black cats, like most other less flamingly decorated cats, only want to be fed, left alone, played with–you know, cat life, and that black cats probably don’t even realize that they are black cats or that they have special evil bad luck powers.  People project their own weird obsessions and repressions on small, strangely colored predators for no reason at all.  Do white cats have special powers as well?

On black cats

Black cats seem to be an evolutionary oddity.  Being as black as night doesn’t seem to be the best camouflage for a predator, especially in daylight.  The fact that there are black cats seems to contradict this idea, but natural selection plays no favorites: those will qualities that will promote the production of the next generation will be those qualities that are passed on, and although natural selection is not really that simple, it does raise the question, why black cats? What is it about black cats that makes them successful?  Does the success of the black cat lie outside of the cat itself?  In other words, have people influenced their success in a positive way because people like black cats? Are black cats aesthetically pleasing to have around?  Of course, some superstitious people have created the myth that black cats are bad luck, especially if they cross your path, that black cats are associated with witchcraft, that black cats are incarnated evil spirits, especially evil female spirits. I do not believe in good or bad luck. These are external values that we create in our minds to explain the things that happen in our lives, but good and bad things happen, and many accidental things–weather, geophysics, third parties–are completely out of our control, but good luck or bad luck are inventions of our minds that have nothing to do with the empirical world.  Bad luck is nothing but a specific non-objective interpretation of events. That we would associate a certain color animal with bad luck is irrational and frivolous. A black cat in Texas, for example, just needs to stay out of the sun, but the completely black cat is a study in feline design, a predator with sharp teeth and nasty claws ready to kill at a moment’s notice, just like any other cat, Tabby or Persian, white or party-color. In other words, black cats are not much different than Bengal Tiger, except they can purr, tigers roar. I imagine that black cats, like most other less flamingly decorated cats, only want to be fed, left alone, played with–you know, cat life, and that black cats probably don’t even realize that they are black cats or that they have special evil bad luck powers.  People project their own weird obsessions and repressions on small, strangely colored predators for no reason at all.  Do white cats have special powers as well?

On flying standby

I am flying standby this morning because I’m on my way home and I don’t want to spend the entire day in the airport.  I have to cross the entire country from north to south, and I have to make two connections if I get on this flight.  It’s all very uncertain, but kind of exciting.  Will the wheels of good fortune turn my way and let me on this flight, or will the Fates keep me here until 3:30 when my regularly scheduled flight will leave?  The Spinners are working overtime today, and I am completely at the mercy of Fortune.  How wonderfully medieval.  To not know the outcome, to gamble as it were, to trust an outcome to the serendipitous nature of a complex and chaotic world.  Will I get on the flight because someone cancels their trip, or decides to fly later today?  Flying standby is about knowing nothing, controlling nothing, waiting will everyone else boards the plane, waiting for the gate attendant to give me a new boarding pass with a seat number.  There is something deliciously out of control about the whole situation.  We live in a world in which we think we can control everything, but that, of course, is an illusion.  Boarding passes with seat numbers are an illusion of control.  In all honesty, most of life is about careening out of control around blind corners down dark alleys and into the abyss of life.  You cannot avoid life no matter how hard you try.  The best laid plans of mice and men too often come to naught, and most discourse is the sound and the fury with no meaning.  Barraged by television, by the internet, by billboards and announcements of all kinds, the Fates set us to dance in a never ending, whirling maelstrom of input that drives us mad with desire for things, for people, for money, for control.  In the end, we are all flying standby whether we like it or not.  I am going to finish this now so that I keep you in suspence.  I still don’t know if I am leaving in an hour or not, and it’s a wonderful feeling.

On Oscar

What did Billy Crystal say last night? “Tonight we are going to watch a bunch of millionaires give each other little golden statues.” I have watched the Oscars for a couple of decades, and they really are no more transcendent now than they were in 1929 when the Screen Actors Guild started handing out the faceless statuettes. They just add another level of mysticism, elitism and glamor to an already very selective and exclusive club to which no mortal has access. Like a bunch of crazed voyeurs, we tune in each year to stare at the beautiful people come together to out-stage even each other. Their pathetic attempts at saying “thank you” border on the banal and boring. Basically, the Oscars are here to tell us all that we are just normal human beings and have no chance of ever attaining the fame and stature of the stars who will possibly win a little golden statuette. Oscar is a talisman of exclusivity. The people who receive the award have worked hard, but they also have had their share of good luck. And how many, exactly, have sold their souls to the Devil to get that little golden guy? Far from jealous, I would say that having a normal life is a pretty special thing. I can walk into any Starbucks in any airport in the world and not have to worry about being recognized, about having to be nice to fans, about having every inch of my life under a microscope. While I am out in public, my stress levels are very low. I can go to the grocery store, get my junk and get out. I’m not so sure that giving out autographs, getting lots of photos taken, and having my life scrutinized at every turn would be that interesting. In a sense, any of those famous people is just a regular person as well. Notting Hill (1999) is an unglorified look into the public/private pain of an actress (Julia Roberts) who is looking for love, but her all too public face makes that impossible. The stress of living a public life cannot be at all very fun. Having a face that half the planet will recognize has to be a pain in the neck. Oh, I wouldn’t mind the money, at least at first, and I’m sure the fame is great for the ego, at least at first, but in the long run, the press, the paparazzi, the news channels must be both tedious and boring. You cannot gain a pound or grow old, you cannot have a movie that goes bad, you cannot play characters that your fans might hate, you cannot fail to live up to their expectations. So let them pass out their little statues. The movies may or may not be good. Some of my favorite films were never nominated for anything, and, as far as I’m concerned, many of the big names might never have been made at all.

On stoplights (and running the yellow)

Why I’ve never written about the bane of my existence is beyond me, but today I spent some extra-special time stopped at stoplights. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes the yellow comes too late for a person to stop, but many times my fellow citizens bend the law by accelerating and not stopping–I consider this driving in bad faith and dangerous. On my way to work today I was carrying a gallon of boiling hot chili in my trunk, so I had my hazmat license from the county for transporting dangerous materials. All was in order. So what happened? I got stopped by three stoplights in a row that turned yellow just in time so that I had to stop by standing on my brakes. Since I learned to drive in Minnesota, for me yellow means “stop” not drive more quickly and run the red. So it happened the first time, and I had plenty of time to ponder the gallon of hot chili in my trunk that was sloshing all over kingdom come and dripping down on the spare. I didn’t think this could happen again in less than half a mile, but it did. More chili slopped out onto the spare. When it happened a third time, I was almost ready to give in to despair, turn around, call it a day, and go home. At this point there might have been about a half pint of chili left in crock pot, so I continued on to work. About a mile from my office, I had to stop again. Well, much to my surprise when I pulled the crock pot out of the trunk, the hot chili was still in the pot! I guess my guardian angel must have been back there holding the crock pot for each stop light because I didn’t spill a drop, but it wasn’t from a lack of trying! At each stoplight I got to spend a few moments contemplating the meaning of life, secrets for getting chili stains out of my trunk carpeting, meditating on parental heritage of the stoplight engineers. This evening I had to stop at another stoplight that just flipped to yellow in time for me to stop. I mean, if you can stop, you have to stop. I see a lot of red light runners in town, and to be honest, it’s both rude and dangerous. Many of these people drive as if they were saved and ready to go to Heaven at moment because if they keep running those red light, it won’t be long before they meet their maker. As my wisdom-filled driver education teacher always used to say, “There are no old bad drivers.”

Bad Luck Charm

Here’s an open secret: I’m slightly superstitious.  It’s not severe–like the baseball player who always wears the same pair of dirty socks when pitching <although I did insist on wearing the same clothes anytime I raced for a while, but I washed them so it only half counts>.  And maybe other people wouldn’t even recognize it as superstition:

  • Must have rosary with me when flying = “Catholic” or “Religious”
  • Cannot discuss opportunities until the deal is sealed lest I jinx it= “Tentative,” “Cautious”
  • Never say things are going well or good, ditto on the jinxing possibility = “Pessimistic” or “Self-Deprecating”

So, call it what you will, I have a system of rules and rituals that I mostly abide to stave of bad luck.  Ya know, like magic.  But in the midst of recent life events, I’m concerned that I might actually be the bad luck charm–which especially sucks, since you can’t enact rules and rituals to avoid yourself <actually, I think this is exactly what addicts of various sorts do, but track with me>.

Here’s what I’m referring to specifically: a friend near-and-dear is getting married in T minus 1 week.  And in the many ironies that collectively constitute my life, I am a bridesmaid in this blessed union.  She’s a good friend, which means we never had that awkward phase of revelation where I had to explain my marital-, parental-, and lifestyle idiosyncrasies <which, yes, is always an issue in meeting friends and men–if you’ve read Bossypants, it’s the Tina Fey equivalent of people asking her about her scar.  Me: “By the way, I have a 4 yr old…and I’m divorced…and my Former lives across the courtyard (200 ft?) from me…and we’re still friends…and all our other friends live there, too…and he’s a great guy, you should date him…”>.  The bride and I are neighbors, in fact, so she’s been a spectator of my spectacle whether I’ve wanted observers or not.

Nevertheless, I keep thinking that perhaps we ought to have a sit down about my qualifications for this:

Me: You remember how I’m divorced, right?

Bride: Yeah, I got that memo.

Me: Ok, cool.  And you remember that I’m kinda eh about marriage.

Bride: Yeah, we’ve talked about that.

Me: …and weddings…

Bride: That, too.

Me: …and also, I’m relationally inept, so I don’t know that I’m qualified for this…

Bride: That, too many times.

Me: Ok, just so we’re clear.

Bride: Don’t worry.  You repeat yourself a lot.

Ok, so it’s safe to say that she’s aware of my reasons, but I remain concerned that I might be a bad luck charm to this affair.  I even had a dream about it last night where I didn’t have the right dress for the ceremony, I missed my makeup appointment and various other bridal party mandatories, and I went scandalous with a groomsman.  I can’t even promise that this won’t happen in waking life in some form or fashion considering that my shoes have not yet arrived in the mail, I’m not a punctual person, and on the groomsman issue, see above disclosure about relational ineptitude.

In addition, I have limited adult experience in any of the starring roles of a wedding <which should also imply that I discount my adult status at my own wedding>.  There was a time last summer-ish when I was an accidental flower girl.  In another of the great ironies of my life, a colleague of Former’s was getting married, and she had asked him if our daughter would be the flower girl.  He agreed and then proceeded to be out of town that weekend <ok, so it wasn’t on purpose, but still>.  Since his friends really love and respect me since the divorce <they don’t>, I stepped up to the mother plate and offered to facilitate Daughter’s participation because, in short, she was pretty amped about wearing a white princess dress in public.  The first night at the rehearsal dinner was not at all awkward <it was>: just Daughter, a friend that I’d drug along for company, and me at a table with some of the bride/groom extended family.

Legitimate Guest #1: So how do you know the bride and groom?

Me: Oh, I don’t really.  I’m just the transporter.

[blank stares]

Me: I mean, my For– uh, um, Daughter’s dad went to school with Bride.

Legitimate Guests in unison: Aaahhh.

Legitimate Guest #2: And you?

Girl-Date-Friend: [with Russian accent] Oh, I don’t.  I just live next door to Ashley, and Daughter, and Former.

[crickets]

The next morning, I could sense Daughter’s trepidation about her role in the wedding.  Her floofy dress, it seemed, was deteriorating as sufficient incentive to get her to walk through a church throwing flowers while everyone stared on <this is not her preferred variety of showboating>. We arrived at the chapel early for her to practice.  My role was to hide in successive pews attempting to coax her along by brandishing various treats like gum, lollipops, and love.  She made the trek enough times to give us all a bit of hope that it would work, but I knew…

When the bridal party lined up for the procession, she clung to me in fear.  I agreed to stand with her until the wedding planner said it was go time.  At the 11th hour, a bridal relative asked if Daughter would be more amenable if I escorted her.  ”What the hey?  I’ve got a dress on, right?”  Girl-Date-Friend had positioned herself in a pew near the entrance to provide Daughter the comfort of a familiar face.  Instead, it provided the promise of immediate shelter, and hand-in-mine, Daughter drug us over to Girl-Date-Friend when I subtly suggested she toss out some flowers per her job description.  With the train already in motion, my only recourse was to make this thing happen <the opening bars of Mendelssohn’s wedding march do sound a lot like the anthem from Rocky>.  So I scooped her up and we processed with the petals.

It wasn’t what you would term a disaster, so much as a mishap.  Had Former been there, I doubt it would have gone similarly; he has a way with Daughter.  And while I think the couple was mostly glad to have avoided a more awkward interruption in this orchestration, I also doubt that their enthusiasm over a homewrecker paving the way for their union.

Returning to my sanctioned participation in a wedding: if you’re not yet convinced of the possibility for moderate doom, I am also convinced that other friends have blacklisted me from their nuptials given my relationship history and their dim view of my marriage’s demise. <It couldn’t possibly be my running commentary on patriarchy during most wedding ceremonies.  ”And do you, Female, promise to submit and obey? Do you, Male, promise to lead/provide/discipline her accordingly? I now pronounce you  Mr. & Mrs. His Name.” Are you kidding me?>

My primary strategy for counteracting any bad luck contamination that could result from my involvement in this wedding is to talk about it as a possibility.  You know like with wishes or dreams– talk about them and they won’t come true.  I suppose this is another of the superstitious rules and rituals I employ.  But I have to admit, I’m a little bit nervous about the effectiveness of this strategy after an exchange that Former and I had yesterday while boxing <also known as hitting each other in a fashion that makes it seem legitimate>:

Former: C’mon! Why don’t you hit me in the face?

Me: Because you don’t have your headgear on right now, so it wouldn’t be fair.

Former: But I’m hitting you in the face.

Me: [exasperated] See?! This always happens to me! There are these rules I have.  I have these rules, but nobody plays by them!

Former: P, nobody knows the rules but you.