Category Archives: nonsense

On "The Game of Thrones"

Posted on by

I stopped reading this book on page 218, disgusted by George R. R. Martin’s total disregard for either his readers or his characters, so if that’s what you like about him, stop reading now because I’m throwing him under the bus. Perhaps some people find it refreshing to have every single good character in the book killed or maimed in some hideous way, but I find it boorish. Good characters do die sometimes, no doubt, verisimilitude has to be a part of any good novel, but Martin pushes the envelope just a little too far in dashing his readers hopes and expectations for any kind of happy resolution. In a certain way, he is a writer/conman who just keeps pushing his readers down the road of desperation and depression. Some readers like their novels dark and depressing, bereft of any hope or sentiment, maybe that’s what they expect out of life so that’s how they pick their novels. I don’t mind if my hero is in danger, that she has a challenge to resolve, that he suffers hardship or even dies, but there is a strange cruelty in Martin’s writing. His sadism as a writer transfers to a novel that makes people–his readers–suffer through all sorts of misfortunes and tragedies. The idea of dystopia is fundamental in the literature of the 20th and 21st century, and there is a long history of dystopic writings such as On the Beach, Brave New World, and 1984. Those are only three, but one might add Cormac McCarthy’s The Road to that list. Dystopia is certainly an important part of the Martin post-post-modern world, but it should be ingested in small dosis–too much, all at once, and it will make you a very dark person indeed. Martin’s world is a dystopia, no doubt, a decadent pseudo-medieval setting of wrecked castles, corrupt and traitorous rulers, and heroes who are not heroes. Martin’s dark take on his society was at first, for me, refreshing, mysterious, filled with interesting characters, but after 200 pages, the handwriting is on the wall. Why should I bother to depress myself with this kind of writing? Just when you think he’s letting one of his characters succeed, he kills them in some horrific way. He has a sadistic twist in his writing where he allows the evil people to wallow in their excesses while at the same time he punishes the good with nasty tragedies and unjust punishments. Novels, no matter how dark, need to allow their fictional inhabitants a chance to succeed and breath, and if the world does work, the evil will be vanquished and punished because in the real world we don’t get this kind of satisfaction very often, so we look for our heroes in books. The real world is a valley of tears, where the good people fail, our friends get sick and die, our relatives suffer from unemployment and exploitation. I have no doubt that many readers are right at home in Martin’s novels and do appreciate my comments, but I would have it no other way. Hundreds of thousands of readers like his books, but I am quite sure that there are plenty of readers out there who feel tricked, fooled, sad that they read all of those pages only to find that the bad guys have flourished, the good are all dead, and there really was no point in reading this in the first place. Life is too short to read novels that depress and sicken you. The ironic part of this is that when I started out reading this first novel I thought it was pretty good. No, I was wrong.

On "The Game of Thrones"

Posted on by

I stopped reading this book on page 218, disgusted by George R. R. Martin’s total disregard for either his readers or his characters, so if that’s what you like about him, stop reading now because I’m throwing him under the bus. Perhaps some people find it refreshing to have every single good character in the book killed or maimed in some hideous way, but I find it boorish. Good characters do die sometimes, no doubt, verisimilitude has to be a part of any good novel, but Martin pushes the envelope just a little too far in dashing his readers hopes and expectations for any kind of happy resolution. In a certain way, he is a writer/conman who just keeps pushing his readers down the road of desperation and depression. Some readers like their novels dark and depressing, bereft of any hope or sentiment, maybe that’s what they expect out of life so that’s how they pick their novels. I don’t mind if my hero is in danger, that she has a challenge to resolve, that he suffers hardship or even dies, but there is a strange cruelty in Martin’s writing. His sadism as a writer transfers to a novel that makes people–his readers–suffer through all sorts of misfortunes and tragedies. The idea of dystopia is fundamental in the literature of the 20th and 21st century, and there is a long history of dystopic writings such as On the Beach, Brave New World, and 1984. Those are only three, but one might add Cormac McCarthy’s The Road to that list. Dystopia is certainly an important part of the Martin post-post-modern world, but it should be ingested in small dosis–too much, all at once, and it will make you a very dark person indeed. Martin’s world is a dystopia, no doubt, a decadent pseudo-medieval setting of wrecked castles, corrupt and traitorous rulers, and heroes who are not heroes. Martin’s dark take on his society was at first, for me, refreshing, mysterious, filled with interesting characters, but after 200 pages, the handwriting is on the wall. Why should I bother to depress myself with this kind of writing? Just when you think he’s letting one of his characters succeed, he kills them in some horrific way. He has a sadistic twist in his writing where he allows the evil people to wallow in their excesses while at the same time he punishes the good with nasty tragedies and unjust punishments. Novels, no matter how dark, need to allow their fictional inhabitants a chance to succeed and breath, and if the world does work, the evil will be vanquished and punished because in the real world we don’t get this kind of satisfaction very often, so we look for our heroes in books. The real world is a valley of tears, where the good people fail, our friends get sick and die, our relatives suffer from unemployment and exploitation. I have no doubt that many readers are right at home in Martin’s novels and do appreciate my comments, but I would have it no other way. Hundreds of thousands of readers like his books, but I am quite sure that there are plenty of readers out there who feel tricked, fooled, sad that they read all of those pages only to find that the bad guys have flourished, the good are all dead, and there really was no point in reading this in the first place. Life is too short to read novels that depress and sicken you. The ironic part of this is that when I started out reading this first novel I thought it was pretty good. No, I was wrong.

On literature

Posted on by

I am often amused by those who would define literature, thinking that somehow they can draw boundaries around such an abstract idea as if drawing boundaries would ever make any difference at all. Literature is a phenomenon unequaled in the imagination of human creation. It bleeds into every avenue of human endeavor, but has nothing to do with any particular area of writing. Some would say that literature is just the creative arm of writing–poetry, essay, fiction, non-fiction, but who hasn’t read an interesting letter, diary, o explanation? Some theorists would have us think that literature has something to do with artist’s intention, but that idea has long since burned itself out on the ash heap of good intentions and dead end streets. Literature cannot be explained because it defies explanation, escapes facile definitions, runs away from those who would box it up and sell it. The problem with definitions of literature is that almost all of them come with some sort of aesthetic attached: that this writing is not aesthetically driven so it isn’t literature, that a novel by Nabakov or Cervantes is literature, but the instructions for building a model race car are not. There is no doubt that these are different kinds of literature that do extremely different things, but they are both literature. Literature does not need protecting, or defining, or coddling, or anything at all. Whether one likes a piece of literature or not is another matter entirely, but then again, nothing is written about personal taste. You may or may not like Ovid, Aristotle, Aquinas, O’Henry, Miller, Flaubert, or Pasternak, but others do. You may like romances, or mysteries, or essays on evolution, and others may find all of that very boring while they read historical fiction and biographies which you hate. The problem with a word such as “literature” is that it is too big to be constrained in any meaningful way which does not deconstruct into nothingness. Literature can be almost anything. Maybe the list of ingredients on a cereal box is not literature, but then again, maybe it is. Literature, regardless of its form or content, has life when readers do whatever it is that readers do: read. By trying to define literature be its function, or form, or content one falls into an aesthetic tiger trap of irrelevancy and vanity. Though some might react by saying that literature has to be definable because it exists, I would still insist that all definitions fall short of actually saying anything of importance about literature, writing, genre, tropes, metaphors, or reading. Some might accuse this point of view as completely relativist. Those who teach “great texts” are often blinded by their own aesthetic considerations for what constitutes literature, which is fine because literature offers liberty especially for those who would lock themselves in a prison of pious opinions, anachronistic literary theory, and worn out traditions. Literature does not have to be old, or written by white European males to be good, profound, insightful, entertaining, delightful, or moving. I’ve read my share of Aquinas and Augustine, and although they are very good, they are literature for more mature minds that have time to disentangle the complex rhetoric and profound theologies. Dashiell Hammett has as much, or more, to say about nature of sin in our fallen world, and he’s a little more accessible than his predecessors. Since what we consider to be literary has so much to do with personal taste, a rather subjective criteria, we must admit that there was no golden age of literature in the past when everything was marvelous and that today we are passing through a decadence from which we cannot free ourselves, which is just so much nonsense. Literature, even in the age of mechanical reproduction, will survive every challenge to quantify it, change it, monitor it, censor it, or kill it because readers will always want more.

On literature

Posted on by

I am often amused by those who would define literature, thinking that somehow they can draw boundaries around such an abstract idea as if drawing boundaries would ever make any difference at all. Literature is a phenomenon unequaled in the imagination of human creation. It bleeds into every avenue of human endeavor, but has nothing to do with any particular area of writing. Some would say that literature is just the creative arm of writing–poetry, essay, fiction, non-fiction, but who hasn’t read an interesting letter, diary, o explanation? Some theorists would have us think that literature has something to do with artist’s intention, but that idea has long since burned itself out on the ash heap of good intentions and dead end streets. Literature cannot be explained because it defies explanation, escapes facile definitions, runs away from those who would box it up and sell it. The problem with definitions of literature is that almost all of them come with some sort of aesthetic attached: that this writing is not aesthetically driven so it isn’t literature, that a novel by Nabakov or Cervantes is literature, but the instructions for building a model race car are not. There is no doubt that these are different kinds of literature that do extremely different things, but they are both literature. Literature does not need protecting, or defining, or coddling, or anything at all. Whether one likes a piece of literature or not is another matter entirely, but then again, nothing is written about personal taste. You may or may not like Ovid, Aristotle, Aquinas, O’Henry, Miller, Flaubert, or Pasternak, but others do. You may like romances, or mysteries, or essays on evolution, and others may find all of that very boring while they read historical fiction and biographies which you hate. The problem with a word such as “literature” is that it is too big to be constrained in any meaningful way which does not deconstruct into nothingness. Literature can be almost anything. Maybe the list of ingredients on a cereal box is not literature, but then again, maybe it is. Literature, regardless of its form or content, has life when readers do whatever it is that readers do: read. By trying to define literature be its function, or form, or content one falls into an aesthetic tiger trap of irrelevancy and vanity. Though some might react by saying that literature has to be definable because it exists, I would still insist that all definitions fall short of actually saying anything of importance about literature, writing, genre, tropes, metaphors, or reading. Some might accuse this point of view as completely relativist. Those who teach “great texts” are often blinded by their own aesthetic considerations for what constitutes literature, which is fine because literature offers liberty especially for those who would lock themselves in a prison of pious opinions, anachronistic literary theory, and worn out traditions. Literature does not have to be old, or written by white European males to be good, profound, insightful, entertaining, delightful, or moving. I’ve read my share of Aquinas and Augustine, and although they are very good, they are literature for more mature minds that have time to disentangle the complex rhetoric and profound theologies. Dashiell Hammett has as much, or more, to say about nature of sin in our fallen world, and he’s a little more accessible than his predecessors. Since what we consider to be literary has so much to do with personal taste, a rather subjective criteria, we must admit that there was no golden age of literature in the past when everything was marvelous and that today we are passing through a decadence from which we cannot free ourselves, which is just so much nonsense. Literature, even in the age of mechanical reproduction, will survive every challenge to quantify it, change it, monitor it, censor it, or kill it because readers will always want more.

On learning English

Posted on by

Anyone who learns English as a second language has my admiration. I’ve been trying to learn English as a first language for over fifty years to great or lesser degrees of success or failure, and I have to admit, English is one really tough nut to crack. I’ve studied verbs and nouns, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, clauses, gerunds, pronouns, relative pronouns, subject pronouns, object pronouns, interjections, slang, and a never ending list of strange grammar points, none of which are consistent, coherent, or logical. Even if the pronunciation weren’t a nightmare, or that all the short vowels weren’t the same, or the silent letters, or all the bizarre idiomatic expressions with prepositions and verbs, or the lack of a true subjunctive, or our inconsistent orthography, or our strange relationship to punctuation, it would still be hard. Don’t even get me started with the helping verb “do” or whatever the word “would” really means because I have no idea. As a bilingual person (I sorta speak a little Spanish–Hablo un pequeño español), I know how hard it is to learn another language that you were not born with. I’ve studied English for years, and it is still a complete mystery to me. Oh sure, I’ve given up trying to make sense of this mess, which is a major load off of my shoulders because trying to understand English is only a little less terrible than trying to learn it as a second language. Perhaps the only thing crazier than English syntax is, well, wait, maybe there is nothing crazier than English syntax. What drives second language learners out of the minds are all of the words that sound to them just about the same, and if that isn’t enough, there are about thirty different brands of English which pronounce all of those similar words just a little bit differently, but not differently enough to be another language, or even another dialect, just differently enough to confuse the hell out of anyone trying to learn English as a second language. And it’s the little words, the in’s and on’s, the about’s and the over’s which can change the meaning of any simple sentence in a radicle way–thinking “over” something is not the same as thinking “about” something. The combinations of verbs and prepositions is almost infinite as are their different meanings. Let’s not even discuss the passive voice in English. Yet English seems to be everywhere and is a requirement for so many kinds of jobs and occupations, so a lot of people have to learn it. Perhaps the hardest thing to learn in English are the idiomatic expressions–short, sweet, and have little or nothing to do with the actual words involved, so knowing the meaning of the words is irrelevant for understanding the meaning of the entire phrase. If you tell someone, “You’re fired,” they should have no actual idea that they are out of a job. What is so maddening, nee, insane about English are all of the small subtleties that contribute to meaning. The pronunciation is impossible, the syntax twisted, the semantics insane, so why would anyone want to learn English? Well, I can think of lots of reasons, but there can only really be one reason that has any value–because they want to. In the meantime, sign up for your English classes–in a college or university, on-line, maybe a pre-packaged course you do on your computer? Sandstone?

On learning English

Posted on by

Anyone who learns English as a second language has my admiration. I’ve been trying to learn English as a first language for over fifty years to great or lesser degrees of success or failure, and I have to admit, English is one really tough nut to crack. I’ve studied verbs and nouns, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, clauses, gerunds, pronouns, relative pronouns, subject pronouns, object pronouns, interjections, slang, and a never ending list of strange grammar points, none of which are consistent, coherent, or logical. Even if the pronunciation weren’t a nightmare, or that all the short vowels weren’t the same, or the silent letters, or all the bizarre idiomatic expressions with prepositions and verbs, or the lack of a true subjunctive, or our inconsistent orthography, or our strange relationship to punctuation, it would still be hard. Don’t even get me started with the helping verb “do” or whatever the word “would” really means because I have no idea. As a bilingual person (I sorta speak a little Spanish–Hablo un pequeño español), I know how hard it is to learn another language that you were not born with. I’ve studied English for years, and it is still a complete mystery to me. Oh sure, I’ve given up trying to make sense of this mess, which is a major load off of my shoulders because trying to understand English is only a little less terrible than trying to learn it as a second language. Perhaps the only thing crazier than English syntax is, well, wait, maybe there is nothing crazier than English syntax. What drives second language learners out of the minds are all of the words that sound to them just about the same, and if that isn’t enough, there are about thirty different brands of English which pronounce all of those similar words just a little bit differently, but not differently enough to be another language, or even another dialect, just differently enough to confuse the hell out of anyone trying to learn English as a second language. And it’s the little words, the in’s and on’s, the about’s and the over’s which can change the meaning of any simple sentence in a radicle way–thinking “over” something is not the same as thinking “about” something. The combinations of verbs and prepositions is almost infinite as are their different meanings. Let’s not even discuss the passive voice in English. Yet English seems to be everywhere and is a requirement for so many kinds of jobs and occupations, so a lot of people have to learn it. Perhaps the hardest thing to learn in English are the idiomatic expressions–short, sweet, and have little or nothing to do with the actual words involved, so knowing the meaning of the words is irrelevant for understanding the meaning of the entire phrase. If you tell someone, “You’re fired,” they should have no actual idea that they are out of a job. What is so maddening, nee, insane about English are all of the small subtleties that contribute to meaning. The pronunciation is impossible, the syntax twisted, the semantics insane, so why would anyone want to learn English? Well, I can think of lots of reasons, but there can only really be one reason that has any value–because they want to. In the meantime, sign up for your English classes–in a college or university, on-line, maybe a pre-packaged course you do on your computer? Sandstone?

On confusion

Posted on by

Finally, I get to write about something about which I am an expert. Confusion is a state of mind in which nothing makes sense–the world is illogical, the pieces don’t fit together, two and two don’t make four. For me, the best way to deal with confusion is to admit that I am confused and that the confusion is not going away any time soon. Whether one is actually confused or just pretending to know what is going on, the world is a complicated place. Confusion often arrises out of a desire to put the pieces together when there is no chance that the world actually makes sense. There are those who would argue the world always makes sense, that it just is, and they create a bunch of myths that explain everything. It isn’t so much that the myths are untrue–they are–it’s the initial premise that myths explain the world which is wrong. Yet, confusion is not a comfortable thing with which to live, so many people resort to listening to spurious myths about the way is constructed, constructing a world which makes sense to them, but it doesn’t make sense to others who don’t except their take on reality. Confusion is really about accepting the fact that many times the world–fragmented, chaotic, contradictory, dissonant, and unexplainable–is not logical or sensible in any way at all. The problem with confusion is probably something quite simple: we hate feeling confused, which is the result of not keeping a lid on our own egos. We think we can know the world, and we won’t admit to confusion. I am quite comfortable with feeling confused. I have come to terms with a world that I don’t understand, and I’m not sure I want to. Perhaps a little confusion is a good thing–keeps us honest about how much we don’t know about the world, a quantity which will probably fill volumes someday. We get cocky with our computers, tablets, and smart phones. We live with the illusion that we control things, that we are manipulating the world, that we know what we are doing. We are kidding ourselves about how we think we have constructed our own logical realities. Confusion is the chaos of bad traffic, a broken escalator, a dead battery, or any of the strange and confusing happenings that break up our daily routine which appear unexplainable or unfathomable. We give ourselves headaches trying to make sense of things that make no sense. We talk about fate or destiny, but this is nothing but self-justification for what is actually chaos. We want to see order where there is none; we want the world to make sense–confusion is anathema to our psychological profiles as type A personalities who want to control everything. By allowing myself to feel confused, I make no claim to understanding why the world is as it is. If there is a big picture, I haven’t been privy to that conversation, so I’m not going to worry about it. So when I don’t understand the crisis or conflicts of the world, I don’t worry about it, especially those things which I can’t change, and work on those problems which might have solutions, no matter how confusing they might be. I also find my own attitude to be both confusing and inexplicable most of the time. Confusion is a helpful way to view the world because it removes the pressure of explaining everything, allowing me to be more comfortable in a world that I only partially understand.

On confusion

Posted on by

Finally, I get to write about something about which I am an expert. Confusion is a state of mind in which nothing makes sense–the world is illogical, the pieces don’t fit together, two and two don’t make four. For me, the best way to deal with confusion is to admit that I am confused and that the confusion is not going away any time soon. Whether one is actually confused or just pretending to know what is going on, the world is a complicated place. Confusion often arrises out of a desire to put the pieces together when there is no chance that the world actually makes sense. There are those who would argue the world always makes sense, that it just is, and they create a bunch of myths that explain everything. It isn’t so much that the myths are untrue–they are–it’s the initial premise that myths explain the world which is wrong. Yet, confusion is not a comfortable thing with which to live, so many people resort to listening to spurious myths about the way is constructed, constructing a world which makes sense to them, but it doesn’t make sense to others who don’t except their take on reality. Confusion is really about accepting the fact that many times the world–fragmented, chaotic, contradictory, dissonant, and unexplainable–is not logical or sensible in any way at all. The problem with confusion is probably something quite simple: we hate feeling confused, which is the result of not keeping a lid on our own egos. We think we can know the world, and we won’t admit to confusion. I am quite comfortable with feeling confused. I have come to terms with a world that I don’t understand, and I’m not sure I want to. Perhaps a little confusion is a good thing–keeps us honest about how much we don’t know about the world, a quantity which will probably fill volumes someday. We get cocky with our computers, tablets, and smart phones. We live with the illusion that we control things, that we are manipulating the world, that we know what we are doing. We are kidding ourselves about how we think we have constructed our own logical realities. Confusion is the chaos of bad traffic, a broken escalator, a dead battery, or any of the strange and confusing happenings that break up our daily routine which appear unexplainable or unfathomable. We give ourselves headaches trying to make sense of things that make no sense. We talk about fate or destiny, but this is nothing but self-justification for what is actually chaos. We want to see order where there is none; we want the world to make sense–confusion is anathema to our psychological profiles as type A personalities who want to control everything. By allowing myself to feel confused, I make no claim to understanding why the world is as it is. If there is a big picture, I haven’t been privy to that conversation, so I’m not going to worry about it. So when I don’t understand the crisis or conflicts of the world, I don’t worry about it, especially those things which I can’t change, and work on those problems which might have solutions, no matter how confusing they might be. I also find my own attitude to be both confusing and inexplicable most of the time. Confusion is a helpful way to view the world because it removes the pressure of explaining everything, allowing me to be more comfortable in a world that I only partially understand.

On an endless winter

Posted on by

Winter is a strange season. I look forward to the cool weather all summer. As a child I would get up every morning hoping for that first snow which might fall in the dark of night while all were asleep. The cold weather and snow would eventually show up, much to my delight, but by the first of March most everyone, including myself, would be tired of winter coats and boots, gloves and scarves, hats and mittens, our shielding from the icy cold of winter. One expects January and February to be ugly. That’s just the way it is in Minnesota in winter, but March is a different matter entirely, wildly unpredictable, windy, stormy, cold, warm, wet, muddy–a mess. It might warm up in March, but only to make you weep later when the winds of a St. Patrick’s Day storm blow cruelly across the plains. April is usually when things turn warm. Yes, you might get a little snow, but when the sun shines in April, the temperatures go up, the grass turns green, and the dandelions come out. Birds sing, the lilacs smell wonderful, and the trees begin to leaf out. This is a normal April: people get their gardens ready, the snow finally melts in the shadowy places, and people begin to put away the winter stuff. Going out without a jacket is pure pleasure, the snow is gone, and when precipitation falls, it isn’t frozen anymore. This is a normal April. The endless winter of 2013 has had the people of the midwest in chains for quite some time, adding insult to injury by dumping a foot of snow on the midwest on May 2nd. Winter just got ridiculous. It isn’t that I have never seen snow in May, but not a foot. When I was sixteen, I saw a couple of slushy inches fall on May 4th, but they were gone by noon, and that year had not been particularly problematic in terms of cold or snow. This year, the year that will be known as the year spring never arrived, has been the year of the endless winter. April has been brutal with a continuous string of snowfalls that have tested both the patience and the humor of the people in the Midwest. The winds have been icy, the snow deep, you can’t even see the grass, and trees are as bare now as they were by the end of November. The snow shoveling people have been over the moon, making money hand over fist. Cities have used up their supplies of sand and salt, and don’t have money for more. Snowplowing budgets have long since been in the red, and then a blizzard hit the central plains again, this time on the second day of May. Spring is now about a month and a half behind. The farmers are concerned about getting in their crops. Local high school baseball teams have been playing in the gym. Tennis players look longingly at snow-clogged courts and think whimsical thoughts of playing in the sun with sweat dripping down their faces. The grass, plastered under the snow, is brown and dormant, the dandelions are no where to be found. The normally warm, sunny air of May still blows mean and cold, the winter jackets hang wearily from the shoulders of the pale riders of daily life in Minnesota and Wisconsin, Colorado and Kansas, the Dakotas, Iowa. These people, who normally can tolerate a lot of bad weather, are weary, tired of the constant storms, the ice, the huge piles of snow. For now, the gardens go unplanted, prom goers must wear overcoats, slipping and sliding over the ice as they go to dance. The ravages of winter still litter the landscape, no trees have bloomed out, the corn crop is unplanted, and the white-tail deer are beginning to wonder if summer will ever come. In the meantime, the people begin to clear away the snow, again.

On an endless winter

Posted on by

Winter is a strange season. I look forward to the cool weather all summer. As a child I would get up every morning hoping for that first snow which might fall in the dark of night while all were asleep. The cold weather and snow would eventually show up, much to my delight, but by the first of March most everyone, including myself, would be tired of winter coats and boots, gloves and scarves, hats and mittens, our shielding from the icy cold of winter. One expects January and February to be ugly. That’s just the way it is in Minnesota in winter, but March is a different matter entirely, wildly unpredictable, windy, stormy, cold, warm, wet, muddy–a mess. It might warm up in March, but only to make you weep later when the winds of a St. Patrick’s Day storm blow cruelly across the plains. April is usually when things turn warm. Yes, you might get a little snow, but when the sun shines in April, the temperatures go up, the grass turns green, and the dandelions come out. Birds sing, the lilacs smell wonderful, and the trees begin to leaf out. This is a normal April: people get their gardens ready, the snow finally melts in the shadowy places, and people begin to put away the winter stuff. Going out without a jacket is pure pleasure, the snow is gone, and when precipitation falls, it isn’t frozen anymore. This is a normal April. The endless winter of 2013 has had the people of the midwest in chains for quite some time, adding insult to injury by dumping a foot of snow on the midwest on May 2nd. Winter just got ridiculous. It isn’t that I have never seen snow in May, but not a foot. When I was sixteen, I saw a couple of slushy inches fall on May 4th, but they were gone by noon, and that year had not been particularly problematic in terms of cold or snow. This year, the year that will be known as the year spring never arrived, has been the year of the endless winter. April has been brutal with a continuous string of snowfalls that have tested both the patience and the humor of the people in the Midwest. The winds have been icy, the snow deep, you can’t even see the grass, and trees are as bare now as they were by the end of November. The snow shoveling people have been over the moon, making money hand over fist. Cities have used up their supplies of sand and salt, and don’t have money for more. Snowplowing budgets have long since been in the red, and then a blizzard hit the central plains again, this time on the second day of May. Spring is now about a month and a half behind. The farmers are concerned about getting in their crops. Local high school baseball teams have been playing in the gym. Tennis players look longingly at snow-clogged courts and think whimsical thoughts of playing in the sun with sweat dripping down their faces. The grass, plastered under the snow, is brown and dormant, the dandelions are no where to be found. The normally warm, sunny air of May still blows mean and cold, the winter jackets hang wearily from the shoulders of the pale riders of daily life in Minnesota and Wisconsin, Colorado and Kansas, the Dakotas, Iowa. These people, who normally can tolerate a lot of bad weather, are weary, tired of the constant storms, the ice, the huge piles of snow. For now, the gardens go unplanted, prom goers must wear overcoats, slipping and sliding over the ice as they go to dance. The ravages of winter still litter the landscape, no trees have bloomed out, the corn crop is unplanted, and the white-tail deer are beginning to wonder if summer will ever come. In the meantime, the people begin to clear away the snow, again.