Category Archives: mud

On the pastoral

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Is the countryside really nicer than city life? I’ve lived in a big city or two with underground trains, tons of surface traffic, people everywhere, concrete canyons and paved right-aways, neon lights, smoke and fog, buses, trucks, and cars. The steady drone of city life is like a huge upset beehive with lots of angry bees. Horns honking, people shouting, trucks groaning, movers moving, venders selling, distributers delivering everything. The white noise can be a little overwhelming for the senses, and I don’t even want to talk about the smells or the unsightly stuff that one might witness. I love the city where you always have a million things to do at a quarter to three in the morning, but it can wear on your nerves. The countryside, however, is a little different: noise stand out because of its absence. Birds singing, a brook gurgling, wind fanning the trees, sunshine on your shoulders, and absolutely no people, When I’m up in the woods of northern Minnesota, and no one is around, every step you take breaks the silence that reigns over the area. Waves lap on the shore of the lake, kicking up a little foam. Another breeze rustles the branches of a small tree that stands next to you. A fish jumps in the lake, a loon flaps heartily across the surface of the lake as it takes off, a wolf howls at sunset, calling his troops home. The urban environment of the city is home to conflict and discord, noise and chaos, straight lines and concrete paths. The forest and the lake are the dialogic opposite to the pressure of the city. Time stands still and only reluctantly passes as the sun slowly slides across the sky. No one is in a hurry. A squirrel suns himself on a rock before heading off to find more acorns. The smell of grass, leaves and forest, a pungent mixture of wetness and decay, a lazy multi-layered perfume that Mother Nature shares with everyone. There is no sense of urgency, the paths are crooked and unpaved, the ground is uneven, a boulder juts from the ground like a stranded iceberg. Wild raspberries grow in unorganized clumps, and you have nowhere to go, no neon, no noise, no trucks, no delivery vehicles. There are no phones ringing or cars or stoplights or crowds. Life in the country is both simple and uncomplicated; the complete opposite of the way the urban crush can be 24/7. Nobody cares what time dinner might be, so the sun comes up and it goes down, creating a natural rhythm that is unaffected by neon, noise, and nattering neighbors. The forces of nature of much larger than anything man can create–buildings, streets, bridges, and artificial parks. In the cities, we use parks to remind us of the country in case we forget or get nostalgic about the peace we have left behind in the wilderness, creating artificial ponds and fake forests, trying to find the peace we sacrifice the fast-paced life under the lights. The country, wilderness, a forest, a mountain meadow, a dry dessert, a quiet river valley, an empty canyon, the prairie, these are the places where time stops and a person might recollect their thoughts and remember that not everything is a schedule, landscapes are not always created with straight lines, and that mud, rocks, grass, trees, creeks are natural and intriguing. Nostalgia for natural places will probably lower your blood pressure.

On the pastoral

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Is the countryside really nicer than city life? I’ve lived in a big city or two with underground trains, tons of surface traffic, people everywhere, concrete canyons and paved right-aways, neon lights, smoke and fog, buses, trucks, and cars. The steady drone of city life is like a huge upset beehive with lots of angry bees. Horns honking, people shouting, trucks groaning, movers moving, venders selling, distributers delivering everything. The white noise can be a little overwhelming for the senses, and I don’t even want to talk about the smells or the unsightly stuff that one might witness. I love the city where you always have a million things to do at a quarter to three in the morning, but it can wear on your nerves. The countryside, however, is a little different: noise stand out because of its absence. Birds singing, a brook gurgling, wind fanning the trees, sunshine on your shoulders, and absolutely no people, When I’m up in the woods of northern Minnesota, and no one is around, every step you take breaks the silence that reigns over the area. Waves lap on the shore of the lake, kicking up a little foam. Another breeze rustles the branches of a small tree that stands next to you. A fish jumps in the lake, a loon flaps heartily across the surface of the lake as it takes off, a wolf howls at sunset, calling his troops home. The urban environment of the city is home to conflict and discord, noise and chaos, straight lines and concrete paths. The forest and the lake are the dialogic opposite to the pressure of the city. Time stands still and only reluctantly passes as the sun slowly slides across the sky. No one is in a hurry. A squirrel suns himself on a rock before heading off to find more acorns. The smell of grass, leaves and forest, a pungent mixture of wetness and decay, a lazy multi-layered perfume that Mother Nature shares with everyone. There is no sense of urgency, the paths are crooked and unpaved, the ground is uneven, a boulder juts from the ground like a stranded iceberg. Wild raspberries grow in unorganized clumps, and you have nowhere to go, no neon, no noise, no trucks, no delivery vehicles. There are no phones ringing or cars or stoplights or crowds. Life in the country is both simple and uncomplicated; the complete opposite of the way the urban crush can be 24/7. Nobody cares what time dinner might be, so the sun comes up and it goes down, creating a natural rhythm that is unaffected by neon, noise, and nattering neighbors. The forces of nature of much larger than anything man can create–buildings, streets, bridges, and artificial parks. In the cities, we use parks to remind us of the country in case we forget or get nostalgic about the peace we have left behind in the wilderness, creating artificial ponds and fake forests, trying to find the peace we sacrifice the fast-paced life under the lights. The country, wilderness, a forest, a mountain meadow, a dry dessert, a quiet river valley, an empty canyon, the prairie, these are the places where time stops and a person might recollect their thoughts and remember that not everything is a schedule, landscapes are not always created with straight lines, and that mud, rocks, grass, trees, creeks are natural and intriguing. Nostalgia for natural places will probably lower your blood pressure.

On the Grimpen Mire

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“It’s a bad place, the Grimpen Mire.” –Stapleton I had never seen anything like it–mud, quagmires, swamp, water, potholes, and the like. A dangerous place if I ever saw one. Of course, if you knew your way around it, it was no more dangerous than, say, the streets of New York or London. The entire place, however, smelled of decay and rot, and I wondered how people could live around here without being completely and utterly depressed about the the entire experience of life. Yet, it also occurred to me that the people of the moor were used to the bad weather, the cold winds, the rocky landscape, the misshapen trees, the crooked paths, the meloncholy atmosphere, the rainy weather, and the dank, moldy smell of the mire. Primitive, prehistoric, this is probably what most of the countryside looked like before man started developing it for farming, building cities, carving it into pieces. The Grimpen Mire could resist all of that and maintain its primordial condition of untamed and uncivilized wilderness. The local inhabitants, though few, seem to carve out a living, doing a bit of grazing and farming, but nothing of much use really grows around here. The entire place radiates a gloomy, if not Gothic, ethos of decay and danger. From time to time, it has been said, that tourists, hikers, have entered the Grimpen Mire in order to chase away the demons, to dispel its odd history of ominous disappearances and strange occurrences. This strange collection of smelly, swampy potholes and watery green blotches has nothing inherently sinister about it–or does it. I mean, just because we humans give a place horrific attributes, does that mean that the place is really evil? Stapleton seems to think so, although he amazed me the other day by running into the mess without a second thought. He claims to know his way through the maze of sink holes, small streams, small slews, and swampy areas. I wish Holmes were here. And now I have also heard a howling animal. It makes your blood run cold. The Mire, the moor, the desolation, the inclement weather and the loneliness of the place is truly depressing. I yearn to be back in my rooms in London, a fire in the grate, sitting in my chair with a good book in my lap. Yet, here I stand on the edge of the Grimpen Mire, rain in my face, meloncholy in my soul, a strange collection of characters arrayed around me, no one seems to be who he says he is, and Holmes is still stuck up in London reading some enigmatic palimpsest from a fifteenth-century English abbey. This is one of those times when I would like to throw in the towel, return to London, and say, “To hell with all you crazy people!” No, I can’t do that. Holmes needs me here, on the edge of the Grimpen Mire, and yes, it is a very bad place.

On the Grimpen Mire

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“It’s a bad place, the Grimpen Mire.” –Stapleton I had never seen anything like it–mud, quagmires, swamp, water, potholes, and the like. A dangerous place if I ever saw one. Of course, if you knew your way around it, it was no more dangerous than, say, the streets of New York or London. The entire place, however, smelled of decay and rot, and I wondered how people could live around here without being completely and utterly depressed about the the entire experience of life. Yet, it also occurred to me that the people of the moor were used to the bad weather, the cold winds, the rocky landscape, the misshapen trees, the crooked paths, the meloncholy atmosphere, the rainy weather, and the dank, moldy smell of the mire. Primitive, prehistoric, this is probably what most of the countryside looked like before man started developing it for farming, building cities, carving it into pieces. The Grimpen Mire could resist all of that and maintain its primordial condition of untamed and uncivilized wilderness. The local inhabitants, though few, seem to carve out a living, doing a bit of grazing and farming, but nothing of much use really grows around here. The entire place radiates a gloomy, if not Gothic, ethos of decay and danger. From time to time, it has been said, that tourists, hikers, have entered the Grimpen Mire in order to chase away the demons, to dispel its odd history of ominous disappearances and strange occurrences. This strange collection of smelly, swampy potholes and watery green blotches has nothing inherently sinister about it–or does it. I mean, just because we humans give a place horrific attributes, does that mean that the place is really evil? Stapleton seems to think so, although he amazed me the other day by running into the mess without a second thought. He claims to know his way through the maze of sink holes, small streams, small slews, and swampy areas. I wish Holmes were here. And now I have also heard a howling animal. It makes your blood run cold. The Mire, the moor, the desolation, the inclement weather and the loneliness of the place is truly depressing. I yearn to be back in my rooms in London, a fire in the grate, sitting in my chair with a good book in my lap. Yet, here I stand on the edge of the Grimpen Mire, rain in my face, meloncholy in my soul, a strange collection of characters arrayed around me, no one seems to be who he says he is, and Holmes is still stuck up in London reading some enigmatic palimpsest from a fifteenth-century English abbey. This is one of those times when I would like to throw in the towel, return to London, and say, “To hell with all you crazy people!” No, I can’t do that. Holmes needs me here, on the edge of the Grimpen Mire, and yes, it is a very bad place.

On an old pair of shoes

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Does it bother you when you have to toss out an old pair of shoes? There they sit in the corner of the closet or entry way, all battered, holey and worn out. The sole is torn and wasted, ragged and broken, cracked and wizened from years of use. They have been around the world more than once–Chicago, New York, London, Madrid, Paris, Waco, and now they no longer keep out the water. In fact, it is only the duct tape which is even keeping them on your feet. They are stained and worn, a million creases on a pair of ancient faces. The cobbler says, “Buy a new pair.” Yet, these shoes know every bone and callus and blister your feet have ever had. You’ve been through the rain in San Francisco, the snow in Minneapolis, the sand in Siesta Key, the parking lot at the grocery store in Waco, the mud along the Mississippi River. You’ve scraped dog pooh, bubble gum, tar, mud, and unknown sticky solids from their soles and they still kept your feet safe. You have put them through the x-ray machines in a hundred airports. You secretly put a fifty dollar bill under the insole for years in case of trouble. They were once forgotten in a hotel room in Kansas City, but they came back in the mail a week later. You have carried them along beaches on all of the world’s continents except Antarctica. One time, you spilled whiskey on them. You have replaced the laces more times than you can count. They are stained with the sweat of your own perspiration, walking in deserts, dusty roads, and city sidewalks. They have been resoled, restitched and remade, but now the leather is breaking down and you can’t fix them anymore. You have light blue paint on these shoes from that time you volunteered to help your sister paint her kitchen. There they sit like a couple of old dogs who are so old they can’t move anymore, but they don’t complain either. You have other shoes in better shape that know your feet just as well. It’s not like can’t afford a new pair of shoes either. There are bad holes in these old shoes. You suspect that they are molding a bit. Your feet got wet the last time you put them on to go to the grocery store in a down pour. People might start to think you are a vagrant if you continue to wear these shoes. You put them in a plastic grocery sack and carry them out to the garage, closer to the garbage bin than you feel comfortable with, but you have no choice. You are secretly hoping that your spouse will do the dirty for you, and that the bag with the old shoes will find its way into the trash while you are away at work. You hope you never see them again, but the memories you have of those old shoes will not fade or go away, the heroes of a thousand battles.

On an old pair of shoes

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Does it bother you when you have to toss out an old pair of shoes? There they sit in the corner of the closet or entry way, all battered, holey and worn out. The sole is torn and wasted, ragged and broken, cracked and wizened from years of use. They have been around the world more than once–Chicago, New York, London, Madrid, Paris, Waco, and now they no longer keep out the water. In fact, it is only the duct tape which is even keeping them on your feet. They are stained and worn, a million creases on a pair of ancient faces. The cobbler says, “Buy a new pair.” Yet, these shoes know every bone and callus and blister your feet have ever had. You’ve been through the rain in San Francisco, the snow in Minneapolis, the sand in Siesta Key, the parking lot at the grocery store in Waco, the mud along the Mississippi River. You’ve scraped dog pooh, bubble gum, tar, mud, and unknown sticky solids from their soles and they still kept your feet safe. You have put them through the x-ray machines in a hundred airports. You secretly put a fifty dollar bill under the insole for years in case of trouble. They were once forgotten in a hotel room in Kansas City, but they came back in the mail a week later. You have carried them along beaches on all of the world’s continents except Antarctica. One time, you spilled whiskey on them. You have replaced the laces more times than you can count. They are stained with the sweat of your own perspiration, walking in deserts, dusty roads, and city sidewalks. They have been resoled, restitched and remade, but now the leather is breaking down and you can’t fix them anymore. You have light blue paint on these shoes from that time you volunteered to help your sister paint her kitchen. There they sit like a couple of old dogs who are so old they can’t move anymore, but they don’t complain either. You have other shoes in better shape that know your feet just as well. It’s not like can’t afford a new pair of shoes either. There are bad holes in these old shoes. You suspect that they are molding a bit. Your feet got wet the last time you put them on to go to the grocery store in a down pour. People might start to think you are a vagrant if you continue to wear these shoes. You put them in a plastic grocery sack and carry them out to the garage, closer to the garbage bin than you feel comfortable with, but you have no choice. You are secretly hoping that your spouse will do the dirty for you, and that the bag with the old shoes will find its way into the trash while you are away at work. You hope you never see them again, but the memories you have of those old shoes will not fade or go away, the heroes of a thousand battles.

On paperwork

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I have commented in the past how paperwork is a kind of dark, lurid karma that follows me around, thwarting my every move. Today I spent several hours putting paperwork together for my study abroad program. I understand the need for the paperwork, but I sometimes wonder if paperwork wasn’t invented to make this or that process seem efficient and safe, but paperwork as an end in itself is only illusory and does not serve the purpose for which it was intended. My son is currently involved in filing the necessary paperwork for his Eagle Scout project, and the paperwork is more difficult and complicated than his project was (he served his community by retiring over 300 hundred worn out, dirty, and tattered American flags). So my question is this: should the amount of paperwork necessary to complete a project be inversely proportional to the amount of work required to do the original project? Does paperwork actually serve a deeper purpose to confuse, nee, to deter people from doing good things because the paperwork is overtly onerous and unnecessarily complicated? I think that original intentions, no matter how misguided, have often allowed rather simple, clear, safe procedures that work to become completely and utterly complex, erasing the original objective of the paperwork, which was to gather important information and make it accessible to directors, managers, and administrative assistants. When paperwork is designed, however, by those who do not participate in the original program, whatever it might be, paperwork develops a life of its own as labyrinthine paperwork, developing a strange complexity that dooms it to unending failure. Paperwork should only be about collecting the necessary information for allowing those doing the work to succeed. Complex paperwork such as tax forms needlessly complicate tax procedures, tax collection, and tax calculations until the system begins to sag under its own enormous weight of laws, rules and regulations, all because nobody kept an eye on keeping the paperwork simple. I would happily do all the paperwork required of me if I knew that it eventually would serve some greater purpose of keeping me safe or ensuring that my program run better. The muddiness of complex paperwork is depressing, time-consuming, and doomed to a life of death, a Dantesque contrapasso for those who demanded paperwork of others without understanding that they were neither making the process better, nor were they ensuring the success of the process for which the paperwork is demanded. Complex paperwork not only does not collect the rudimentary information it needs to be successful, it clouds all information, and no one can distinguish the true objective of the paperwork, much less understand why it was collected in the first place. Just because you have data doesn’t mean the data means anything.