Workshop abroad

This amused me.

Since last year, Hil has been organizing a workshop abroad (in International City) for all the people in our division who do the kind of work I do. Back then she asked for a preliminary show of hands who could attend and of course I said yes. Then this year she asked for a solid list of who was coming. Business has been bad for our business unit lately, so Somebody Important decided we could send only one person to this workshop. The obvious choices were me or one other guy who was recently hired and who supports sites in another part of the country. Somewhat reluctantly I proposed that he should go, because a big part of these workshops is the networking and he is new to the company. I already know some of the people who will be there, and it will be valuable for New Guy to meet them too.

When I first heard about this workshop, I proposed to Elly that I might be able to piggy-back on the travel so that I could stop off in the UK and say hello. It was sort of a hare-brained idea, but she thought it sounded intriguing and so we had penciled it in for the distant future. When I withdrew in favor of New Guy, I e-mailed Elly that it was a no-go. Too bad. Deep sigh.

Then last week I heard from my boss's boss that there had been some "discussions" on the subject. Apparently Hil had urged that I really had to be there because of ... all the stuff I do, I guess. I'm not the only one in the US doing this work for our business unit. New Guy does it too. But Hil said ... well, I'm not sure exactly what she said. But she also went to her boss -- and his boss -- to persuade them that I had to show up. And apparently she carried the point. I was informed that an exception will be made and I should buy my tickets pronto.

I passed the news along to Elly, but I'm not sure how feasible it will be to buy interlocking tickets on short notice. Still, I was amused. Am I really all that important? Or is it just that I seem to be Hil's favorite American collaborator these days, possibly because of the almost-but-not-quite flirtatious energy between the two of us?

No idea, really. And I shouldn't let it go to my head. But I am amused.

Writing Marie

I told in my previous post about getting the address of Marie, my old girlfriend from college. And I said I want to write her.

Why? Not to rekindle a romance. I don't have any romances going right now, and while occasionally -- rarely -- I miss the sex, I really, really don't miss subordinating my whole life to the other person. Maybe there is a way to be in a romance without falling back into bad habits, but I never learned it.

But I don't have a lot of friends. Mostly this doesn't make me feel lonely, because I am fine with my own company (and yours). And of course there are plenty of people at work with whom I get on affably. But friends with whom I can talk about what is going on with me and expect to be understood? Not a lot of those. Not sure I have any of those, really, at the moment. And it has always been a very short list.

So what I hope for -- in the best case -- is that maybe Marie and I, after all these years, can succeed in being "just friends", with the emphasis on the positive fact of friendship rather than on the negative restrictions of just. Maybe the fact that we have known each other for so long -- together with the fact that she must surely by now have made whatever other romantic arrangements she is going to make (since I've been long out of the picture) -- means that we can be friends for each other in the best way. Maybe. I guess we'll see.

Of course, she might not want to hear from me. Or the address might be out of date. Or a hundred other things might spoil my fantasy plans. All true. On the other hand: nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Here is what I wrote this morning. I'm going to post it as soon as I finish recopying it here.

Dear Marie,

Last week Son 2 and I visited the Schmidts for a couple of days. We had spent the week visiting colleges which might interest him, and found ourselves in that corner of the state with time to spare. It was a pleasant visit -- the first time we'd been there in 12 years, when Son 2 was only 5. So we chatted about farming and the Hitchhiker's Guide, clambered around some of the local scenic wonders, and allowed Ma Schmidt to overfeed us.

During the conversation, Ma Schmidt remarked that they see you from time to time, so on the spur of the moment I asked for your address. Schmidt gave me this one, with the proviso that it might be out of date; and of course for my own part I realize there could be any number of reasons that you might not have the time to write back. So this note is a bit of a shot in the dark. Still, I'd love to know how you are doing.

The telegraphic version of my own news runs something like this, I guess. I'm still in Beautiful City (as you can see from the return address); I'm still working in [the same old field]; Son 1 is starting his sophomore year at college in the next state over; and Son 2 is starting his senior year at Durmstrang. There's more, of course -- when was I ever at a loss for writing more? -- but I'll let it wait until I know whether this is the right address. Also it depends how much you are interested in.

I hope this finds you well and happy. And I do hope to hear from you.

All the best, now and ever,
Hosea

Visiting Schmidt

While Son 2 and I were driving around looking at colleges, we stopped in to visit a fellow I met in college. I'll call him Schmidt. Schmidt is my age, or a year older; he is single and lives with his mother (who is about 80) on a farm far away from here. I mentioned him briefly in this post seven years ago.

Schmidt can be an engaging fellow when you get to know him, but he shies away from most social interaction. Or at any rate he won't make any effort for it. He doesn't return letters, for example. Time was that Wife spent a lot of time writing him, calling him, and visiting him. But the effort was nearly all on her side. We even drove the whole family out to visit him and his parents on his farm back in 2003, when his dad was still alive. But then something happened -- I no longer remember what -- and she suddenly stopped. I think it had something to do with Schmidt telling Wife that he didn't need her -- or anybody -- in his life. Anyway, she stopped calling him, and he was never very good about calling us. We dropped out of touch. When Wife and I separated I wrote him a few times, trying to see if we could resume our friendship now that Wife was out of the way. I got nothing back. After several tries, I began to think "You know, Hosea, sometimes friendships just die off. Maybe he is trying to tell you to stop bugging him, as politely as he can. Let it go." And for the most part I did. But then Son 2 would tell me something about working on the ranch at Durmstrang (his high school) and I would think it was too bad I wasn't in touch with Schmidt. Schmidt would appreciate the story.

Anyway, we were out looking at colleges, and our route was going to take us within a couple hours of the Schmidt family farm. They have a family business with a website, so I e-mailed to info@[familybusinessname].com to mention we were "nearby" and maybe we could stop in to say hello. I added that if I didn't hear back, I would assume either that it wasn't convenient for us to visit or that he didn't pick up his mail. This last was meant as a built-in excuse, so that if any of my fears about dying friendship proved true, all Schmidt had to do would be to delete my mail.

In fact he e-mailed me back, right away, to say that of course we were welcome but did we realize just how far out of our way we would have to go to get there? Maybe it would be better for us to stay overnight, if that fit our schedule. No reticence at all. So I figured sure, what the hell? And we drove out to the Schmidt farm.

Ma Schmidt was effusively welcoming. Schmidt himself was a little more reserved, at least for the first couple of hours, but then he began to relax. In the end we stayed two nights, spending the day in between visiting some of the scenic natural wonders in his part of the state. Son 2 commented that he was surprised Schmidt talked so freely -- he was expecting him to be dour and taciturn the whole time we were there. Son 2 also added, "My God, Dad, he's just like you. I mean, he lives on a farm and he doesn't talk as much -- but he thinks like you and he has the same sense of humor. I didn't think it was possible." I smiled. Schmidt and I had figured that out back when we were in college ... both that I talk about twenty times as much as he does, and that we laugh at exactly the same things. I didn't realize it was still true, but I guess I wasn't surprised.

Late one night Schmidt and I talked very briefly about my separation from Wife. Schmidt said that when he first met Wife, "I found her very entertaining. She could get on a rant about something and was great fun to listen to. It was only later that I realized she was serious about those rants." And of course he was right: back then, Wife was very entertaining. Her high dudgeons could be hilariously funny. She's less funny now. Also, I talked about my conviction that Wife was bipolar -- manic-depressive. She has always claimed that she's just a depressive, but her psychiatrist treats her with drugs that are for bipolar disorder and her moods seem a lot more stable. What is more, I explained that part of what was attractive about Wife back then was precisely those spells that must (in retrospect) have been manic episodes, during which she could get excited about something in ways that transported us all, and when she could make the preposterous sound just within reach.

At one point we began talking about people we both new in college. I haven't kept in touch with any of them. Schmidt has kept in touch with a few, mostly people I don't think I'm that interested in seeing again. (But of course, people change. Maybe I'm wrong to keep my distance.) Then Ma Schmidt remarked that Marie still visits them from time to time, and has a standing invitation for Thanksgiving dinner. Marie was my girlfriend in college: I mention her in this post, for instance, as the only girl to get naked with me after I was four years old and before I met Wife. I had kept in touch with Marie after college, and even after marriage, but it was always a difficult communication. Marie had been in love with me in a very needy way, and I was frightened by her. So she pulled closer while I pushed away, over and over. Once she broke off communication for several years because "Being 'just friends' doesn't work for me." And when we finally fell out of touch the second (and hitherto final) time it was for much the same reason. 

Still, that was years ago. So I mentioned casually that I had lost touch with her (I'm not sure how much of the back story he knows, but in any event Son 2 was there at the time) and asked for her address. Schmidt gave me what he thought was her address, but said it might be out of date. And so I think I want to write her a letter ....   

Dream

The Greeks used to consider the very last dream before you wake up in the morning the most likely to be prophetic. Here's mine from last night.

I am at my desk, at home in some house ... not sure it was ever a real one. My father is leaning over my shoulder picking up scraps of paper off my desk to read them, and I am pulling the scraps out of his hand trying to shoo him away. And then he starts asking me why I haven't finished up the paperwork separating from Wife. I make some kind of noises that I'll get around to it, but I'm not too concerned. He gets agitated and tells me he is very concerned. Also he has been paying a lot of money to make this happen, and why am I not pulling my weight? A lot of money? Yes, he's been paying a private detective to ... not sure what. Collect dirt on Wife, or make sure she doesn't do something dangerous, or something like that. [In reality, he hasn't done anything of the kind.] I comment that I don't think she can do much damage (most of my money is in accounts she can't touch) so I don't see a need to worry. And he answers, "Well nobody under the age of twenty-five agrees with you!" [I think this must have been the equivalent of a typographical error in the dream and that he meant to say "over the age of twenty-five" ... i.e., all my relatives except maybe the boys disagree with me.]

He hasn't really been paying for a detective. And Wife has no ownership on the accounts where my money is kept. So for the most part I really don't think there is much to worry about. But probably I should get my shit together anyway ....

Visiting colleges

I'm on a road trip with Son 2 for the next couple of weeks, visiting colleges that he thinks he wants to apply to. It has been a lot of driving (1200 miles over the weekend) but also fun: Son 2 has gotten to talk to professors about the things he wants to study, plus clown around with statues of college mascots.

Not much to say about it -- I'm not going to post any of the photos, for instance -- but it's a good time.

Being enlightened doesn't make you right

The last few days I've been reading Mark Richardson's Zen and Now, a retrospective and commentary on Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Actually I bought the book a while ago -- I no longer remember quite when -- but never finished it; and lately I've been browsing through it at random in the mornings instead of getting to work on time. Slovenly habit.

 

This morning I lighted on a paragraph where Richardson describes Pirsig's hospitalization for schizophrenia, an episode which Bob Pirsig himself described as "hard enlightenment". His wife Nancy commented that no-one who knew Bob -- besides Bob himself -- confused his mental illness with enlightenment. But she went on to say that she understood why he did. After all, once he had decided that he was enlightened, he no longer had to take seriously anybody else's contrary opinions. If she ever disagreed with him about anything he would no longer argue ... just stare her down and then walk away, because after all he was enlighteed and she wasn't. So of course she couldn't be expected to understand why he was -- inescapably -- right.

 

Yeah, I get it too. It's a great solace to tell yourself that you are deep enough and smart enough to see into the true nature of things, while the trolls around you toil away in muddy confusion. But that's just a story ... one more of the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of the world, one more of the stories which enchant us and intoxicate us if we take them too seriously. It's just one more form of delusion, subtly masquerading as freedom from delusion.

 

The point is that enlightenment is an experience. It can be a profound experience, like orgasm. But it doesn't make you God. Though you see deeply into the nature of reality, that everything changes, that attachment brings suffering, and all the rest ... none of that helps you remember any more clearly whose turn it is to take out the garbage. None of it helps you know what to say to your kid's teacher, who has called a conference because your kid is acting up in class. None of it makes you a better husband, or father, or employee, or friend. None of it makes you right. It's just an experience.

 

There are ways to build on it, of course. There are ways to build on all our experiences. If you wake up one morning to find yourself enlightened, there are libraries full of advice on how to live now: how to be compassionate, how to tell the truth, how to pick your way through the day without stumbling or falling back asleep. But, like anything, it takes practice.

 

That part is less exciting, of course. But without it, enlightenment is just another intoxicant.

 

 

 

 

New technology

I must be the last person in the United States to get an iPhone. But I have one now. For this and that reason I have gotten one through work, and now I am trying to figure out how to use it.

So far I am typing with the tip of my baby finger and nothing else. But everyone else uses these things fluidly, so I trust that familiarity will be only a matter of time.

Maybe I will post more often? ... because I'll be able to do so the minute an idea strikes me? Sure, hell, why not? Pigs might fly too, while we're at it. I guess we'll see.

Sent from my iPhone