Undefeated

A few years ago an older gentleman used to volunteer his time ocasionally to help the pitchers on my school's baseball team. He was a pleasant man of good nature, with a wide smile and big ears that jutted out to the side giving him the portrait of an aged Alfred E. Newman, the iconic character from the cover of Madd Magazine. He had an ease about him that invited conversation and even the shy among us would feel obliged to at least wave or say hello. When asked how he was doing today he always offered the same, jolly response: "Undefeated so far." Clearly it was in reference to his background as a college coach, and intended to deliver the light hearted sense of humor people like him are generally able to inject into almost any casual social encounter. But take a moment to get past the sheer simplicity of his words and consider their full weight.

If we don't allow ourselves to get out of bed every day undefeated, then what's the alternative?

We couldn't all be cowboys , , , ,

Can you remember back to kindergarten, when the teacher asked each member of the class what they wanted to be when they grew up? It's funny to think of it now, a room full of 5 or 6 year old discussing their career plans and ambitions as if it was always at the forefront of their imagination. forget snack time, cutting and pasting, getting to be the line leader on the march to board the buses, or learning how to tie your shoes. No time for kids' stuff, we had bigger fish to fry. There were all the usual doctors and lawyers and even a few cowboys, which seems remarkable for the Southern Connecticut suburbs in the mid '80's. Guess i'll have to chalk it up to syndicated reruns of Bonanza every Saturday morning. I'm almost positive no one ended up being a cowboy, and i can't help but wonder if most of those kids never had a shot at being doctors and probably no small number of the aspiring prosecutors have found themselves in need of good lawyer; funny how that sort of thing works out. Of all the possibilities i pronounced with great certainty that i wanted to be a comedian. No joke (and no pun intended), i told my teacher i wanted to be a comic. Oddly enough I'm not sure how i came to that conclusion but I'm positive i was serious since I wouldn't develop a capacity for sarcasm and an inability to take these kinds of questions seriously for another 10 years or so. So there i was, in a room full of future doctors and lawyers and real-life class clowns, the fat-cheeked kid in the striped polo shirt with the dutchboy haircut who just wanted to make people laugh when he grew up; and I'm not even sure if i knew any jokes.

As it it turns out, i never did become a comic. My profession of choice is so far removed from most peoples' notion of what's funny that i probably won't be replacing Dane Cook any time soon. I work in the exciting world of studious academics where loony toons ties, pleated pants, brief cases, frumpy shirts, and cardigan sweaters are almost required for entry into the field. At best a few have managed to master the unimaginative and unofficial male uniform of khaki pants and a blue shirt, but even that's a stretch and probably only due some intervention on the part of their wives. I look at most of my colleagues and i see someone who has dressed themselves while semi-intoxicated in clothes they borrowed from either Elmer Fudd, Goofey, or any one of the Muppetts. I read a memoir last year written by a young man traveled to Cornell from India to study and the first thing he told his young wife when he called was, "our rickshaw drivers dress better than my professors." I've seen rickshaw drivers, so things must be really bad in Ithaca. I count my lucky stars and an absence of colorblindness that I don't fit that description at all. Truth be told, i can't figure out if it's just because i haven't met the right cartoon character from whom to get hand-me-downs or because i just drink from a different form of kool-aid. Neither of us understands one another, each seeing the other as some oddly dressed mannequin from a different time and place which neither of us is able imagine. I tend to see teaching as something to be enjoyed that i try not to take too seriously (while understanding that it is still serious business) while for some the notion of personal appearance and any hint of personality takes a back seat to the studious business of stuffing kids heads full of knowledge and using words like 'metacognition' as if it was the first thing they'd uttered after exiting the womb.

So though i may not have become a comedian, I take comfort in knowing that surely some people find a reason to point their finger at me and laugh.

To quote Adam Duritz: "we couldn't all be cowboys, so some of us are clowns."

Now, if i could just find my face paint . . .

Edit, delete, what's the difference besides a few 1000 words?

I’ve had this thing just over a month and already managed to delete all my posts because, apparently, I’m an idiot. Tried to delete one and the entire thing vanished. And though an idiot I may be I’m not a fool so the majority of my entries were backed up on my computer. Actually, no, that’s a bit of a white lie and at best a happy coincidence born out of my own laziness; i might still be a fool. The only reason I had some of them is because I typed them on Microsoft Word first because I’m too unwilling to get used to the small window blogspot makes me use. That and I am the impatient type who refuse to take the time to capitalize my “I’s” and the first letter of new sentences so I rely on Word to do it for me. Alas, a few posts are gone forever, lowercase i’s and all, but I’ll try not to shed a tear. So in lieu of what I planned to write tonight here’s what I managed to save, all conveniently contained in one big entry.

9/1/08

Labor Day, and another summer in the books. Not feeling like writing today so instead I’ll share one of a collection of quotes I’ve acquired over the years. Don’t read into my choice too deeply, as I don’t consider myself a religious man. I just like how absurd the whole things sounds when reduced to lions eating llamas and a few grey herons:

"The first thing that drew me in was disbelief. What? Humanity sins but it's God's Son who pays the price? I tried to imagine Father saying to me, 'Piscine, a lion slipped into the llama pen today and killed two llamas. Yesterday another one killed a black buck. Last week two of them ate the camel. The week before it was painted storks and grey herons. And who's to say for sure who snacked on our golden agouti? The situation has become intolerable. Something must be done. I have decided that the only way the lions can atone for their sins is if I feed you to them.'

'Yes, Father, that would be the right and logical thing to do. Give me a moment to wash up.'

'Hallelujah, my son.'

'Hallelujah, Father.'

What a downright weird story. What peculiar psychology."

-"Life of Pi" Yann Martel

8/24/08

I don’t really intend to share this with people. If someone stumbles upon it and happens to like what they read that is fine, but I’m not writing so I can give my friends something to do at work between updating their Myspace pages and stalking people of Facebook. It takes either a great deal of confidence or an overabundance of pride (perhaps both?) to decide what you write is actually good enough to be read by other people. Sure I’ll be the first one to tell you that I think I’m an interesting person (and I do hope you feel the same way about yourself), but that doesn’t mean anyone wants to hear about it.

I did tell one friend: a coworker much older than me who's computer savey is limited to buying Celtics tickets online with my help, so i figure i'm safe. Though unlikely to ever read this page even if he could navigate to it, he did ask about the title so I’ll take a moment to elaborate on its origin.

Discordant dispatches seems fitting because essentially that’s all any of this is. Discordant, meaning not in harmony or accord (or if you are a geology buff it’s the term for a different kind or rock cutting across a formation of otherwise similar rock) seems like an appropriate description of what’s here. And besides, my first title of ‘ruminations and ramblings,’ though probably more accurate, sounds too much like a reference to the unexciting world of cows. If that was the case I’d be better off calling it ‘rambling ruminants’ but it’s not so I won’t.

The blog address ‘eloquent graffiti’ is in reference to a line in a song by Iron & Wine called The Trapeze Swinger. The second verse starts off:

Please, remember me
Fondly
I heard from someone you're still pretty
And then
They went on to say
That the pearly gates
Had some eloquent graffiti
Like "We'll meet again"
And "Fuck the man"
And "Tell my mother not to worry"

It’s beautiful song really, with any number of possible meanings, but I particularly like the line about the graffiti. I imagine it’s the kind of thing you’d say if you were setting off on a voyage of self discovery or simply leaving what’s familiar in search of what’s possible. “Goodbye, we’ll see each other again but in the meantime please don’t trouble yourself worrying about me. I’ve got some things to figure out but when I do I’ll return.” And “fuck the man” just gives it a rebellious tone that really appeals to me. Like quitting your job and making sure to accidentally spill your coffee on the bosses desk on the way out the door or encasing all your least favorite co-worker's possessions in Jello. I probably couldn’t bring myself to do it, but that doesn't mean i don't have the right to dream. Though neither eloquent nor written on a wall with spraypaint this will have to serve as my own form of graffiti: unsightly to most, but occasionally well placed and clever. I'm not promising Banksy but this won't be your local bathroom stall either.

And BTV is the call sign of the Burlington airport which has recently been reappropriated by locals to refer to the entire city and those of us who call it home.

8/23/08

Birthdays always seem to present an opportunity for self reflection, and this year was no exception. The only difference being that this time I’m writing some of them down. In the some odd years that have passed since i last stroked a keyboard with this same purpose quite a bit has has changed in the world, but i've weathered the storm well. In so doing I've achieved some goals, failed at a few, and revised many; I've lost a father, friends, and mentors; I've lost degrees of innocence and replaced it with degrees of perspective; I've found time and then run out; I've made memories and had others permanently erased in an instant; I've lost the ability to see the world as simple and peoples' conditions as a logical consequence of their own choices; I've lost love, found it, turned my back on it, asked it for forgiveness, taken advantage of its generosity, and at the moment I’m afraid I’m about to abandon it once again; I've been proud and I've been ashamed; I've never looked back and i look back all the time; i left a job to find a career, and having found one that fits me well wonder now if it's really my style; I've learned to put other people first and I've realized that despite my desire for independence it feels terrible to be truly alone, and the only thing worse is to be forgotten. In a word: I've grown up.

8/21/08

I turned a year older today, good a reason as any to try my hand at writing again and a simple way to celebrate another good year in the books. I dabbled with blogging a few years ago with a small measure of success; meaning I updated it at regularly sporadic intervals before neglecting it altogether a few months shy of a partial calendar year. which is to say I adhered mostly to a schedule dictated by not-much-else-to-do and written with all the expected literary flourish of one who has refined his craft with a few too many glasses of wine before settling down to the real business of keyboarding his thoughts.

I've decided to give it another go, not because I've suddenly tripped and fallen over a bounty of interesting thoughts and observations, but because I'm looking for a new experience; something personal, something entirely my own. Every so often life changing events require life changes and, in some small way, this is mine. Nothing profound there really, it's a cliche worn out years ago, but what i always assumed was that it referred to life changing events being singular: one cataclysmic experience that alters ones notion of life, love, God, work, self, etc. Truth is, for most of us i suppose it doesn't work this way. Sure, now and again we get our foundations rocked a bit and occasionally a few pieces fall out and the cracks get a little bigger but for the most part we remain upright and more or less structurally sound: no broken windows, no leaks, and faithful that the stink in the bathroom will eventually go away. But I'd argue nothing harbors a greater capacity to create change than the passage of time and the accumulation of experience. The combination of which adds up to those moments when you lie awake at night, or more often in the wee hours of the morning, wondering how you got to where you are, who are you with (or without), and what you plan to do about it.

I was told by a friend recently that i think too much, and I'd agree. most likely it's a latent consequence of a previous friend telling me i talk too much. So now I'm seeing if i can't score a hat-trick and be told I write too much as well (though should it happen i hope a 4th friend won't have to tell me I'm alone too much). All kidding aside I've decided, through both the subtle and rather acute encouragement of people i consider to have my best interest in mind, hat i might enjoy writing again. Not necessarily with the intention that others will read it (who would want to?) but with the intention that with writing comes a bit of truth. And if not literal written truth then a sort of truth in understanding or, at the very leas,t a higher degree of clarity of ones thoughts. Put simply, I can look at a something and in my imagination decide pretty quickly how i feel about it with no obvious reason or inclination to bother revisiting my initial impression. But, if for whatever reason i decide to write about it i end up with my judgments and impressions staring back at me, and often serving as a reminder of just how daft i can be while watching the world unfold from the comfort of a bar stool or behind the barrier of a nice pair of mirrored sunglasses, with a hot cup of coffee in my hand, and in possession of just enough stupidity to think that sometimes i actually have the world figured out. And when the pile of words reflecting back at me from the computer looks like little more than well punctuated drivel I'm not inclined to disagree.