On gloves

Gloves are a strange garment. You need two and they are different. Gloves seem to be a kind of protection so a person won’t tear up their hands. Baseball players wear them to protect their hands from baseballs, and goalies need them to catch a nasty slap shot. Tennis players do not wear gloves. Surgeons and nurses wear gloves to keep from infecting their patients or being infected by their patients. People in the midwest wear gloves to keep from freezing. Gardeners use gloves while digging in the dirt. Football players wear gloves to keep from ripping up their hands while playing that brutal sport. Basketball has no place for gloves. Golfers wear gloves, but I’m unsure of their reasons. Mechanics should probably wear gloves but often don’t. Boxers must wear gloves. Do gloves without fingers actually qualify as gloves or are they some other thing? Thieves and other evil-doers often wear gloves to avoid leaving behind any clue as to their identities–at least they do on television–maybe being a real evil-doer is different, less glamorous, less smart. People who ring bells–ding-a-lings–should wear gloves. When I work with lots and lots of books, I wear gloves. Gypsy Rose Lee wore gloves, but in her profession it was less about wearing the gloves and more about taking them off. If your gloves get wet from throwing snowballs, you better have a backup pair in your pocket. I still have the first baseball glove I was given as a child. Gloves with holes in them need to be replaced.

On walking in the snow

Walking in the snow is balm to the jagged nerves that the holidays tend to exacerbate. While it was snowing a couple of days ago, I went out for a walk to think about things. Into all lives a certain amount of chaos will always fall: people get older, they get sick and die, or they spend extended amounts of time in the process of dying. This isn’t morbid, it’s just real. The snow falls and reminds me that the seasons change, time goes by, we all get older, everything changes, nothing stays the same except the snow. Walking in the snow reminded me of all the other times in my life that I have walked in the snow–in Minnesota, in Spain, in Texas, in Nevada, in Canada. The snow is silent, gentle, and impersonal–it falls on the just and the unjust equally, and it always will. It covers the sleeping landscape, giving the earth a chance to sleep under an icy blanket, a white death shroud that lovingly envelops everything. When you walk in the snow, you become a part of the shroud, you are a part of death, the silence of the falling snow, the eternity of a single moment. A single snow flake is proof that the entire universe moves towards lowest energy, towards entropy, and we are only incidental players on a universal stage.

On walking in the snow

Walking in the snow is balm to the jagged nerves that the holidays tend to exacerbate. While it was snowing a couple of days ago, I went out for a walk to think about things. Into all lives a certain amount of chaos will always fall: people get older, they get sick and die, or they spend extended amounts of time in the process of dying. This isn’t morbid, it’s just real. The snow falls and reminds me that the seasons change, time goes by, we all get older, everything changes, nothing stays the same except the snow. Walking in the snow reminded me of all the other times in my life that I have walked in the snow–in Minnesota, in Spain, in Texas, in Nevada, in Canada. The snow is silent, gentle, and impersonal–it falls on the just and the unjust equally, and it always will. It covers the sleeping landscape, giving the earth a chance to sleep under an icy blanket, a white death shroud that lovingly envelops everything. When you walk in the snow, you become a part of the shroud, you are a part of death, the silence of the falling snow, the eternity of a single moment. A single snow flake is proof that the entire universe moves towards lowest energy, towards entropy, and we are only incidental players on a universal stage.

On free t-shirts

Have I ever mentioned how much I love getting free t-shirts with strange or bizarre designs and logos? I mean, I don’t have fifty-eight of them, but I have a few. I’ve picked up a few at sporting events (had them thrown at me, really), worn a few at fundraisers (trimmed with the many supporters of the fund raiser), and I have also been handed others in totally random and chaotic situations. There is something blatantly charming about free stuff, but a free shirt is just too much fun. Free shirts are like book marks in time, and every time you wear it, you remember that soccer game, book sale, or picnic in which you received. Two radio stations, a men’s haberdashery, and a light opera all gave me free t-shirts. Strange t-shirts have just appeared in my closet, and I have no idea where they came from or to what they might refer–they are mystery t-shirts. Some favorite t-shirts get rather ratty and need to be culled from the herd. Many of my t-shirts celebrate the school colors of the schools that I have attended (although a few of those were bought, which is not in the spirit of free t-shirts at all). Free t-shirts are frivolous, chaotic, random, liberating, anarchic, and unpredictable. There is nothing about free t-shirts which really organized type-A’s can either like or appreciate. Free t-shirts are a metaphor for the arbitrary nature of life itself.

On free t-shirts

Have I ever mentioned how much I love getting free t-shirts with strange or bizarre designs and logos? I mean, I don’t have fifty-eight of them, but I have a few. I’ve picked up a few at sporting events (had them thrown at me, really), worn a few at fundraisers (trimmed with the many supporters of the fund raiser), and I have also been handed others in totally random and chaotic situations. There is something blatantly charming about free stuff, but a free shirt is just too much fun. Free shirts are like book marks in time, and every time you wear it, you remember that soccer game, book sale, or picnic in which you received. Two radio stations, a men’s haberdashery, and a light opera all gave me free t-shirts. Strange t-shirts have just appeared in my closet, and I have no idea where they came from or to what they might refer–they are mystery t-shirts. Some favorite t-shirts get rather ratty and need to be culled from the herd. Many of my t-shirts celebrate the school colors of the schools that I have attended (although a few of those were bought, which is not in the spirit of free t-shirts at all). Free t-shirts are frivolous, chaotic, random, liberating, anarchic, and unpredictable. There is nothing about free t-shirts which really organized type-A’s can either like or appreciate. Free t-shirts are a metaphor for the arbitrary nature of life itself.

On hurting your index finger

While doing a little work yesterday, I accidentally skinned the back of my index finger on my right hand. Now I have a scab there which has been unceremoniously ripped off about five times, and this is the skin on the knuckle, on the back of the finger. You never know how much you use that particular finger until you have to do dishes, floss, tie your shoes, or change your the tail pipe on your muffler. Even drinking coffee is strange now because that particular spot on the finger touches the hot cup, which I did not know until this morning. Some people call it the “pointer” finger, which sounds rude and probably is. Yet, even from medieval times the “indice” was known as that finger which everyone uses to give directions and focus the attention of different speech acts. And scratching (if you deny you scratch, you really need to have your head examined), who could get through a day without scratching? We won’t specify what, but scratching is important, especially if you have an itch. Even pictures of a hand pointing with its index finger extended have been important signs centuries. Today we might substitute an arrow or similar icon, but it’s just a variant of the pointing finger. Most people “mouse” with their index finger, and those who never learned to type properly use their index fingers to communicate with the world. And there are those less delicate people who think they are invisible at a stop light while they use their index finger to pick their noses. The light turns red, and the old index finger goes into action like an ancient coal miner who just found a new vein to mine. The finger that we wag at our opponents is also the finger with which we push buttons, which may be one and the same thing, depending how who you are trying to bother. For some, the index is also their trigger finger, which is interesting but not necessarily telling or indicative of anything. Until, however, you have an “owie” on it, you just never realize how important that little digit really is.

On hurting your index finger

While doing a little work yesterday, I accidentally skinned the back of my index finger on my right hand. Now I have a scab there which has been unceremoniously ripped off about five times, and this is the skin on the knuckle, on the back of the finger. You never know how much you use that particular finger until you have to do dishes, floss, tie your shoes, or change your the tail pipe on your muffler. Even drinking coffee is strange now because that particular spot on the finger touches the hot cup, which I did not know until this morning. Some people call it the “pointer” finger, which sounds rude and probably is. Yet, even from medieval times the “indice” was known as that finger which everyone uses to give directions and focus the attention of different speech acts. And scratching (if you deny you scratch, you really need to have your head examined), who could get through a day without scratching? We won’t specify what, but scratching is important, especially if you have an itch. Even pictures of a hand pointing with its index finger extended have been important signs centuries. Today we might substitute an arrow or similar icon, but it’s just a variant of the pointing finger. Most people “mouse” with their index finger, and those who never learned to type properly use their index fingers to communicate with the world. And there are those less delicate people who think they are invisible at a stop light while they use their index finger to pick their noses. The light turns red, and the old index finger goes into action like an ancient coal miner who just found a new vein to mine. The finger that we wag at our opponents is also the finger with which we push buttons, which may be one and the same thing, depending how who you are trying to bother. For some, the index is also their trigger finger, which is interesting but not necessarily telling or indicative of anything. Until, however, you have an “owie” on it, you just never realize how important that little digit really is.

On the dark side

I was just thinking that this note was not going to be about Star Wars, but I was wrong. Even Master Yoda would agree, he would, that we all harbor a dark side, a side that makes decisions, gets us through difficult situations, breaks the ice, drives in a nail, moves a heavy object, barges through a traffic jam, gets us out of the rain, climbs that last flight of stairs. Yet, our dark side is also short-tempered, at times, even violent, much to our own chagrin. There are other aspects associated with the dark side that I won’t discuss here, but let’s just say that those facets of our personalities are better left undiscovered, and maybe undiscussed as well. We cannot survive without our dark sides. We would all be indecisive Charlie Browns if we didn’t have a dark side, wishy-washy, good-natured, but no kick and no results. He never did kiss that little red-headed girl, did he? We all disapprove when Rhianna sings about liking whips and chains, but we also have the song on our playlists and Ipods. Perhaps it is the mix of light and dark which saves us. When road rage takes over, we have accidentally unleashed an unedited uncontrolled version of the dark side gone wild. Our more civilized side must be in control while standing in line at the grocery story, while listening to politicians talk, while driving, while deciding who will go first, anytime it would be better to defer to others. The dark side always wants to be first, to get served right away. Yet it is also our dark side that might save us in a sketchy situation, you know, those old “spidy” senses. We cannot give up on our dark side–anger isn’t always a bad reaction, but it must be a measured, reasonable response, not an out-of-control freak show. Maybe that is why Yoda was always so thoughtful even in the most desperate situation.

On the dark side

I was just thinking that this note was not going to be about Star Wars, but I was wrong. Even Master Yoda would agree, he would, that we all harbor a dark side, a side that makes decisions, gets us through difficult situations, breaks the ice, drives in a nail, moves a heavy object, barges through a traffic jam, gets us out of the rain, climbs that last flight of stairs. Yet, our dark side is also short-tempered, at times, even violent, much to our own chagrin. There are other aspects associated with the dark side that I won’t discuss here, but let’s just say that those facets of our personalities are better left undiscovered, and maybe undiscussed as well. We cannot survive without our dark sides. We would all be indecisive Charlie Browns if we didn’t have a dark side, wishy-washy, good-natured, but no kick and no results. He never did kiss that little red-headed girl, did he? We all disapprove when Rhianna sings about liking whips and chains, but we also have the song on our playlists and Ipods. Perhaps it is the mix of light and dark which saves us. When road rage takes over, we have accidentally unleashed an unedited uncontrolled version of the dark side gone wild. Our more civilized side must be in control while standing in line at the grocery story, while listening to politicians talk, while driving, while deciding who will go first, anytime it would be better to defer to others. The dark side always wants to be first, to get served right away. Yet it is also our dark side that might save us in a sketchy situation, you know, those old “spidy” senses. We cannot give up on our dark side–anger isn’t always a bad reaction, but it must be a measured, reasonable response, not an out-of-control freak show. Maybe that is why Yoda was always so thoughtful even in the most desperate situation.