It seems that I am unable to resist retrospection. I can, at least, do better than simply recapitulating 2013 broadly; if I am going to look back, it will be across a longer time and with a narrower focus.
Yesterday, I made the comment that there is a metaphor in part of my view on writing. If there is one, it is one dealing with sewage and plumbing, and it is not the first time I have ventured into such discourse in this webspace. Examples are here, here, here, and here, and there are likely more that can be found by going even further back, or out from this webspace and into my other writing (I recall a poem I wrote for my brother some years back...). I may not do it frequently, but I do from time to time indulge in what can easily be called shitty writing.
That someone who makes much of being a scholar in the academic humanities would do such a thing, would wade into stalls with shovel in hand and spread around the stinking piles I find there, will no doubt strike some as odd. Traditional wisdom holds that one of the hallmarks of erudition, one of the typifying qualities of being educated, is the ability to avoid the indecent, to keep bodily odors down and out of speech and writing, to not spill blackwater where it ought not to go--which is most everywhere. Those like me are not supposed to be night-soil men; we are supposed to pretend that the ivory tower has no facilities for that sort of thing.
It is a pretense, and pretensions are supposed to be execrable. Those in the academic humanities are often...earthy in their senses of humor, and those who handle the medieval are particularly prone to being so. The materials we treat demand it. The masterwork of the Well of English Undefiled rattles on in heroic couplets about farting, oral sex, and a gag that Mel Brooks appropriates. Beowulf has "a great ale-sharing" among people who took no kegs with them into the woods, as my late Anglo-Saxon professor pointed out to his classes. And one of the most notable medieval lyrics, a sweet song of reverdie to celebrate the return of spring, flatly states that the buck will fart with the re-greening of the world. How, then, can my colleagues and I refuse to speak of such things?
The question then arises of whether those who have such senses of humor are attracted to the medieval and, more broadly, the academic humanities, or if the study of those things develops in the student such a sense of humor. There is also this: what does it show of people that they have for hundreds or thousands of years continued to send forth such exhalations and extrude such products, for even now such things as farts are funny.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Monday, December 30, 2013
20131230.0736
In the run-up to the new year, there is a tendency to do retrospective work, to look back over the year that is passing and assess it for what it has brought about, for good and for ill. Any ending, any new beginning, prompts the same, really, whether the ending of an arbitrary and largely-agreed-upon-for-convenience-as-a-way-to-negotiate-colonial-and-imperial-legacies "solar" calendar or a term of instruction or a series of terms of instruction meant to culminate in the formal presentation of credentials that once purportedly indicated a particular level of achievement and broad-based expertise but now serve as entry-level certification that may yet be disregarded.
Offering such a retrospective today or tomorrow would be easy. It is expected, certainly; the tendency far predates this webspace or its writer. But it would be to no purpose. The year has been amply recorded already, and not only by me. Those records are available broadly and openly, and those who want to see them will simply look upon them; those who do not will be attracted for a moment to the noted retrospection, their eyes passing easily over content they have seen before, taking a brief pleasure in being reminded of that thing that they saw that one time, and moving on to the next spectacle. Little will be learned from it, if anything at all.
I therefore have no intention of offering the usual retrospective of the year. Since the end of April, I have worked to put such images of my thoughts and understandings as I can out into the ether of the internet; they are there to be seen by those who want to see them, and if I do refer to them (perhaps too frequently, as may be thought), I do so to explain ideas further or to provide additional reference rather than to look back upon things and think "See how good it has been!" While some of it has been good--the news of my coming child is perhaps the most notable example--most has been...less good, and I would put most of it behind me.
That I would raises the question of why, then, I write of things? For writing is in part remembering outside the self and more durably than in the frail fleshy bits between the ears; writing the pieces I write means that they are there, in the world and in some senses embodied, that they may come back to me again and again. But writing is also in part the externalization of the internal, the pushing-out of that which is within; by writing, I am able in some measure to get out of me what would otherwise remain within me and would fester to corruption did I not expel it from myself and flush it away. And I retain the frail hope that what I do send out will be collected somewhere and what vitality it has left will be extracted for the benefit of others.
Again, there is a metaphor in that. Again, I would tend to think so.
Offering such a retrospective today or tomorrow would be easy. It is expected, certainly; the tendency far predates this webspace or its writer. But it would be to no purpose. The year has been amply recorded already, and not only by me. Those records are available broadly and openly, and those who want to see them will simply look upon them; those who do not will be attracted for a moment to the noted retrospection, their eyes passing easily over content they have seen before, taking a brief pleasure in being reminded of that thing that they saw that one time, and moving on to the next spectacle. Little will be learned from it, if anything at all.
I therefore have no intention of offering the usual retrospective of the year. Since the end of April, I have worked to put such images of my thoughts and understandings as I can out into the ether of the internet; they are there to be seen by those who want to see them, and if I do refer to them (perhaps too frequently, as may be thought), I do so to explain ideas further or to provide additional reference rather than to look back upon things and think "See how good it has been!" While some of it has been good--the news of my coming child is perhaps the most notable example--most has been...less good, and I would put most of it behind me.
That I would raises the question of why, then, I write of things? For writing is in part remembering outside the self and more durably than in the frail fleshy bits between the ears; writing the pieces I write means that they are there, in the world and in some senses embodied, that they may come back to me again and again. But writing is also in part the externalization of the internal, the pushing-out of that which is within; by writing, I am able in some measure to get out of me what would otherwise remain within me and would fester to corruption did I not expel it from myself and flush it away. And I retain the frail hope that what I do send out will be collected somewhere and what vitality it has left will be extracted for the benefit of others.
Again, there is a metaphor in that. Again, I would tend to think so.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
20131229.0920
As a student of the academic humanities, I have many writing projects that need to be completed. Waiting for my attention is one paper I have already committed to write, continued work on the revision of my dissertation, three essays of varying levels of academic intensity, blog entries here and in two other webspaces, several creative pieces, my personal journal, an academic book independent of my dissertation, and a number of funding and job applications. Each will need several pages of writing at the very least, and although I have at times been able to compose quickly, I am not always so fortunate as to be able to churn our thirty pages in a day. (When I am, I pay for it in pain; doing to myself what I must to be thus productive has side effects that are...uncomfortable.)
Given this, it might be asked why I spend my time on such "lesser" projects as this blog and other blogs, or on my personal journal. I have admittedly neglected each in the past, sometimes for sustained stretches. How sporadic were my posts to this webspace before May of this year? And I have fared less well in my other "minor" projects, certainly. So it makes sense that, if I have much writing to do and have demonstrated that I can set aside some in favor of other work, that I ought perhaps to stand aside from more...humble pieces in the interest of devoting my attention to the more...important pieces (insofar as people regard work in the academic humanities as "important," although they should).
Such thoughts assume, however, that there are only so many words to be said, that my language is a finite resource and that there are only so many words that can pour out of me. My parents can assure you that this is not true, I think, and that it has not been since I learned to speak. While the length of the day and the demands of my body may limit the size of the spigot, the tank which it drains has not been sounded; it is as the cup Þorr raises in the halls of Utgard-Loki, perhaps. It is not the case that my spending words in such venues as this drains me of words to use on other projects; to continue with water, they are the drops sprayed out that fall on other plants than the flowers, and the garden is still enriched by them.
Another image to use, perhaps, is that of exercise. Is it not the case for those who wish to exert their bodies that they stretch themselves beforehand, thinking thereby to minimize injury and enhance their performance? Why, then, would it not be the case that those who work with their minds would stretch them through such activities as brief bits of writing? Writing is made easier by doing more of it, not harder, so the time I spend in putting together blog posts and journal entries is not wasted from the other, "greater" projects; it is training and practice so that I can do that part of The Work better. And that is a thing to be valued.
Given this, it might be asked why I spend my time on such "lesser" projects as this blog and other blogs, or on my personal journal. I have admittedly neglected each in the past, sometimes for sustained stretches. How sporadic were my posts to this webspace before May of this year? And I have fared less well in my other "minor" projects, certainly. So it makes sense that, if I have much writing to do and have demonstrated that I can set aside some in favor of other work, that I ought perhaps to stand aside from more...humble pieces in the interest of devoting my attention to the more...important pieces (insofar as people regard work in the academic humanities as "important," although they should).
Such thoughts assume, however, that there are only so many words to be said, that my language is a finite resource and that there are only so many words that can pour out of me. My parents can assure you that this is not true, I think, and that it has not been since I learned to speak. While the length of the day and the demands of my body may limit the size of the spigot, the tank which it drains has not been sounded; it is as the cup Þorr raises in the halls of Utgard-Loki, perhaps. It is not the case that my spending words in such venues as this drains me of words to use on other projects; to continue with water, they are the drops sprayed out that fall on other plants than the flowers, and the garden is still enriched by them.
Another image to use, perhaps, is that of exercise. Is it not the case for those who wish to exert their bodies that they stretch themselves beforehand, thinking thereby to minimize injury and enhance their performance? Why, then, would it not be the case that those who work with their minds would stretch them through such activities as brief bits of writing? Writing is made easier by doing more of it, not harder, so the time I spend in putting together blog posts and journal entries is not wasted from the other, "greater" projects; it is training and practice so that I can do that part of The Work better. And that is a thing to be valued.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
20131228.0751
As I was returning home from taking my wife to work yesterday, I heard comments on the radio about skaldic poetry, the highly allusive and complicated verse typified by the works of Snorri Sturluson and Egill Skallagrímsson. In them, the speaker (whose name I sadly forget) noted the deep background knowledge that audiences of skaldic verse had to have to understand what the skalds were saying to them. (As the skalds were usually saying nice things about the lords who supported them, the audiences usually had reason to know what was being said; even the doughty Nordic folks liked hearing people speak well of them.)
I know of people who might say that we have lost the ability to have such things, that we do not teach our children enough of the old ways and common backgrounds for us to have such a body of work. But I think those people are wrong; we do still have the ability to make such works happen, to refer to things in arcane kennings, through obscure metonymy and synecdoche. Indeed, we are more able to do so; more people can be counted on to know more things or, failing that, to know where to go to learn of those things. For instance, when I wrote some days ago that "The Muse is far away / On Oreb or on Sinai," I expected that my readers would either mark the association with Milton's Paradise Lost (Book I, lines 6-7), already having the knowledge or running a simple search for "Oreb or on Sinai," and so would understand what I wrote without my having to write it. Or when I wrote earlier that "Jeff Lynne's cheery call has been answered abundantly," people would know who Lynne is or would find out quickly. And there are other examples besides.
We still refer to things form our past, and we recognize now that our past is far more complicated and glorious than we had been led to believe in that same past. More value is ascribed to more things, not less, and so more is referenced now than once was. Not only in poetry: are there not Arthurian overtones in the Zelda series (perhaps an essay for another time), and do we not still celebrate retellings of old tales on screens silver, small, and digital? It is because there are more symbols to navigate that my part of The Work, my study of the academic humanities and teaching of the same, remains valuable. My colleagues and I are the ones who examine what is done for what works well and what works poorly, writing of how they function and what those functions assert about both the people who produce and the people who consume. It is only through looking to the past that we can do so; without knowing that Oreb and Sinai are linked by Milton, the repetition of that link makes little sense, and without the training in looking for such things and looking at them in ways admittedly esoteric, what they reveal of writer and reader is hardly evident.
And it needs to be. For one, there is the link to the cultures of the past from which the cultures of the present are sprung, a link that may lead at times to uncomfortable realizations of ancestral errors but that still serves to ground people in the long line of humanity. For another, the presentation and manipulation of such symbols as my colleagues and I are wont to explicate serves to influence the thoughts and perspectives of people; media saturation ensures that it is so. Being able to recognize the symbols that are presented and understand their contexts of origin allows for greater self-control, greater immunity from the ploys of marketers and demagogues, and greater ability of the self to be the self. And that is certainly a worthy thing.
I know of people who might say that we have lost the ability to have such things, that we do not teach our children enough of the old ways and common backgrounds for us to have such a body of work. But I think those people are wrong; we do still have the ability to make such works happen, to refer to things in arcane kennings, through obscure metonymy and synecdoche. Indeed, we are more able to do so; more people can be counted on to know more things or, failing that, to know where to go to learn of those things. For instance, when I wrote some days ago that "The Muse is far away / On Oreb or on Sinai," I expected that my readers would either mark the association with Milton's Paradise Lost (Book I, lines 6-7), already having the knowledge or running a simple search for "Oreb or on Sinai," and so would understand what I wrote without my having to write it. Or when I wrote earlier that "Jeff Lynne's cheery call has been answered abundantly," people would know who Lynne is or would find out quickly. And there are other examples besides.
We still refer to things form our past, and we recognize now that our past is far more complicated and glorious than we had been led to believe in that same past. More value is ascribed to more things, not less, and so more is referenced now than once was. Not only in poetry: are there not Arthurian overtones in the Zelda series (perhaps an essay for another time), and do we not still celebrate retellings of old tales on screens silver, small, and digital? It is because there are more symbols to navigate that my part of The Work, my study of the academic humanities and teaching of the same, remains valuable. My colleagues and I are the ones who examine what is done for what works well and what works poorly, writing of how they function and what those functions assert about both the people who produce and the people who consume. It is only through looking to the past that we can do so; without knowing that Oreb and Sinai are linked by Milton, the repetition of that link makes little sense, and without the training in looking for such things and looking at them in ways admittedly esoteric, what they reveal of writer and reader is hardly evident.
And it needs to be. For one, there is the link to the cultures of the past from which the cultures of the present are sprung, a link that may lead at times to uncomfortable realizations of ancestral errors but that still serves to ground people in the long line of humanity. For another, the presentation and manipulation of such symbols as my colleagues and I are wont to explicate serves to influence the thoughts and perspectives of people; media saturation ensures that it is so. Being able to recognize the symbols that are presented and understand their contexts of origin allows for greater self-control, greater immunity from the ploys of marketers and demagogues, and greater ability of the self to be the self. And that is certainly a worthy thing.
Friday, December 27, 2013
20131227.0600
Another of my small problems presented itself yesterday. As I was checking one of the several email accounts I maintain (far better than my websites, admittedly), I found that a number of emails I had sent out I had, in fact, only thought I sent out; they were still sitting in my outbox. Some of them were months old. In a flurry, I sent them out again, hoping that they would either not be too late or, if they were, that their recipients would take some small pity upon me, seeing the divergence between the dates of the documents attached to them and the date my emails reached their intended inboxes.
The wonders of modern technology at work.
I confess to being thoroughly annoyed at the problem. Among the emails that did not go out when I had meant them to were several containing information that really ought to have gone out when I sent it. I have the distinct impression that the failure of the technology and of my vigilance over the technology (I really ought to have checked on it to make sure that it did what I wanted it to instead of simply assuming that it would do what I wanted it to do) has cost me opportunities that I would have otherwise enjoyed. It would not be the first time that I have missed out on things because I did not pay enough attention, and it will likely not be the last, either; I have been a poor student for that particular lesson, however many times it has been presented to me.
One I recall, and one I regard now as being a small problem despite the panic I experienced when it actually happened, is another technological issue. As an undergraduate, I had a high opinion of myself (surprising, I know), and because of that high opinion, I had enrolled in a number of classes I regarded at the time as being advanced (I know better now, but I was not the man then that I am now--if I can be considered to be a man even now, which I know is questionable). In those classes, as is typical of upper-division major coursework, I had large projects due--presentations, actually, in which I was not so practiced then as I am now. I had saved the texts of those presentations to physical media, which I had taken with me to school to print out and submit as appropriate. Only they did not make it to the medium, or they did and vanished from it--and I had not been intelligent enough to keep a backup copy or email myself one (this is in the long-ago days before cloud storage was a thing). Having the good fortune to have come from witty people, and having been a diligent student (I was less entertaining then than I am now, and I am hardly the life of the party, as I have noted), I was able to cobble together something in a hurry that managed to squeak by. But I was not content with it; I knew I could have done better because I had done better. And now, I seem to have repeated the kind of error I made then.
I may have to give back my degrees.
The wonders of modern technology at work.
I confess to being thoroughly annoyed at the problem. Among the emails that did not go out when I had meant them to were several containing information that really ought to have gone out when I sent it. I have the distinct impression that the failure of the technology and of my vigilance over the technology (I really ought to have checked on it to make sure that it did what I wanted it to instead of simply assuming that it would do what I wanted it to do) has cost me opportunities that I would have otherwise enjoyed. It would not be the first time that I have missed out on things because I did not pay enough attention, and it will likely not be the last, either; I have been a poor student for that particular lesson, however many times it has been presented to me.
One I recall, and one I regard now as being a small problem despite the panic I experienced when it actually happened, is another technological issue. As an undergraduate, I had a high opinion of myself (surprising, I know), and because of that high opinion, I had enrolled in a number of classes I regarded at the time as being advanced (I know better now, but I was not the man then that I am now--if I can be considered to be a man even now, which I know is questionable). In those classes, as is typical of upper-division major coursework, I had large projects due--presentations, actually, in which I was not so practiced then as I am now. I had saved the texts of those presentations to physical media, which I had taken with me to school to print out and submit as appropriate. Only they did not make it to the medium, or they did and vanished from it--and I had not been intelligent enough to keep a backup copy or email myself one (this is in the long-ago days before cloud storage was a thing). Having the good fortune to have come from witty people, and having been a diligent student (I was less entertaining then than I am now, and I am hardly the life of the party, as I have noted), I was able to cobble together something in a hurry that managed to squeak by. But I was not content with it; I knew I could have done better because I had done better. And now, I seem to have repeated the kind of error I made then.
I may have to give back my degrees.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
20131226.0558
I will be going to the doctor today for the first time in some years. It is not good of me to have been neglectful of my physical health, and I very much have been; I recall going to the doctor in The City before I was awarded my doctorate, but not after--and not soon before the degree, either. Yet I had insurance nearly the entire time I was in The City, and enough offices were open on weekends that I could have made my way to one of them. That I have until today avoided seeking physician's care is only one of the many ways in which I have been a fool, so I am glad to be limiting the duration of my foolishness--or at least to reduce it in some small measure for a time.
There is nothing wrong with me that wasn't already, so those of you who read this and give a damn about its writer need not worry. I am simply going in for a checkup--and probably reimmunization, so as to protect the upcoming baby. I am not among the people who believe that the repeated studies which disprove the causal link between vaccination and autism are concocted by Big Pharma to silence the "truth" that was published in The Lancet and later recanted amid much shame. I believe it easier and more likely that one person will lie than many in alignment, and if things are so bad that the conspiracy supposed to exist does and has the influence ascribed to it, we are all under its control, anyway.
That I have been neglectful of my physical health, not seeking medical attention as often as I have needed it (and there have been a few times I well ought to have done so) and not doing basic care and maintenance on my body(the regular checkup), is likely a combination of things. The perception of being too busy is one of them; while I have time off in the work I do now, in The City, I did have a rather...involved workload. Machismo (or some convenient variant on it) is likely another issue; as long as I can work, I ought to work, and I have boasted about continuing to do my part of The Work while feverishly watching pink elephant people trying to take my shoes. Against that, the occasional pain in my ass (extending down my leg) or soreness in my left elbow (from an old martial arts injury) is nothing, so why make a fuss about it? Or so the line of thought goes.
More likely has been fear, the common fear that the doctor will make me do things I do not want to do (those who have terminal degrees cannot usually force others to obey, as I know too well), or the common fear that the doctor will find something grievously wrong (I know that I have some bad habits and that I may suffer greatly because of them). Both are stupid, the former for the reason I note in parentheses, the latter because it is the case that not knowing about problems does not mean not having problems. Better, or less bad, to find them while they may still be fixed (or mitigated) than to find them through the experience of suffering their full effects. And, for those upon whom others depend or will depend, better to know what weaknesses are in place so that some remedy for them can be found, that the dependent do not suffer.
There is nothing wrong with me that wasn't already, so those of you who read this and give a damn about its writer need not worry. I am simply going in for a checkup--and probably reimmunization, so as to protect the upcoming baby. I am not among the people who believe that the repeated studies which disprove the causal link between vaccination and autism are concocted by Big Pharma to silence the "truth" that was published in The Lancet and later recanted amid much shame. I believe it easier and more likely that one person will lie than many in alignment, and if things are so bad that the conspiracy supposed to exist does and has the influence ascribed to it, we are all under its control, anyway.
That I have been neglectful of my physical health, not seeking medical attention as often as I have needed it (and there have been a few times I well ought to have done so) and not doing basic care and maintenance on my body(the regular checkup), is likely a combination of things. The perception of being too busy is one of them; while I have time off in the work I do now, in The City, I did have a rather...involved workload. Machismo (or some convenient variant on it) is likely another issue; as long as I can work, I ought to work, and I have boasted about continuing to do my part of The Work while feverishly watching pink elephant people trying to take my shoes. Against that, the occasional pain in my ass (extending down my leg) or soreness in my left elbow (from an old martial arts injury) is nothing, so why make a fuss about it? Or so the line of thought goes.
More likely has been fear, the common fear that the doctor will make me do things I do not want to do (those who have terminal degrees cannot usually force others to obey, as I know too well), or the common fear that the doctor will find something grievously wrong (I know that I have some bad habits and that I may suffer greatly because of them). Both are stupid, the former for the reason I note in parentheses, the latter because it is the case that not knowing about problems does not mean not having problems. Better, or less bad, to find them while they may still be fixed (or mitigated) than to find them through the experience of suffering their full effects. And, for those upon whom others depend or will depend, better to know what weaknesses are in place so that some remedy for them can be found, that the dependent do not suffer.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
20131225.0728
Have a Merry Christmas, those of you who observe the day!
Have a Happy Wednesday, those of you who do not!
And those of you who believe
There *is* a war on Christmas,
May your joy in this day come from enlightenment.
So may it be for us all.
Have a Happy Wednesday, those of you who do not!
And those of you who believe
There *is* a war on Christmas,
May your joy in this day come from enlightenment.
So may it be for us all.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
20131224.0724
I am rereading Tolkien's Lord of the Rings...again. I have lost track of how many times I have read the piece; in my adolescence, when I first encountered it, I read the text repeatedly, and in my adulthood, I have read it annually or more often. Tolkien's masterwork has informed my writing; my master's thesis works with his commentaries, and I offer conference papers that invoke him at greater and lesser length. (I know the links are to a website that I am not diligent in maintaining. I am working to improve.) So it is...accurate to say that I view Tolkien's writing as important.
That I do will mark me in the eyes of some as being...flighty. I carry with me the nagging suspicion that I am viewed by those who prize the older iterations of my profession of professing as something of a scholarly dilettante, wasting my time on trifles instead of working with the mighty works of the traditional English-language canon (and I suppose it means that I worry about that dilettantism myself). And perhaps it is the case that I look largely at the relatively recent works of Tolkien and of his successors--notably Robin Hobb--because I cannot handle the "serious" pieces of writing. Or, more likely, I look at writing because I cannot handle the "real" world of business, politics, or the STEM fields; I delve into letters not because I am stupid--which I like to think is clearly not the case--but because I am weak (again, the nagging suspicion of how I am viewed and the similarly nagging self-doubt).
My self-doubt aside, the view that the writing of the past is of more value than that of the present is wrong. I am aware that there is a lot of insipid pap available; I am also aware that we have only a small part of the writing that has been done, and even among that small portion, there is a fair bit that is simply bad. It does not get carried forward as much as the "great" works, admittedly, but the fact that it is there to be seen demonstrates that the writers of the past were of as varied quality as the writers of the present. (Tim William Machan has somewhat to say about it.) We simply see more of the variety now because we live now; had we lived then (and been able to read), we would have seen much the same proportion--and the proportion itself is an issue. There is much more to read now than before, even with the Internet; is not most online content written even now? That does mean there is more crap through which to sift, but it also means that there are more treasures to be found. Jewels in raw form may need cutting and polishing, I admit, but that does not mean they are not worth value. And some have already been burnished to a shine through much handling.
I will go add another gleam to the Middle-earth corpus.
That I do will mark me in the eyes of some as being...flighty. I carry with me the nagging suspicion that I am viewed by those who prize the older iterations of my profession of professing as something of a scholarly dilettante, wasting my time on trifles instead of working with the mighty works of the traditional English-language canon (and I suppose it means that I worry about that dilettantism myself). And perhaps it is the case that I look largely at the relatively recent works of Tolkien and of his successors--notably Robin Hobb--because I cannot handle the "serious" pieces of writing. Or, more likely, I look at writing because I cannot handle the "real" world of business, politics, or the STEM fields; I delve into letters not because I am stupid--which I like to think is clearly not the case--but because I am weak (again, the nagging suspicion of how I am viewed and the similarly nagging self-doubt).
My self-doubt aside, the view that the writing of the past is of more value than that of the present is wrong. I am aware that there is a lot of insipid pap available; I am also aware that we have only a small part of the writing that has been done, and even among that small portion, there is a fair bit that is simply bad. It does not get carried forward as much as the "great" works, admittedly, but the fact that it is there to be seen demonstrates that the writers of the past were of as varied quality as the writers of the present. (Tim William Machan has somewhat to say about it.) We simply see more of the variety now because we live now; had we lived then (and been able to read), we would have seen much the same proportion--and the proportion itself is an issue. There is much more to read now than before, even with the Internet; is not most online content written even now? That does mean there is more crap through which to sift, but it also means that there are more treasures to be found. Jewels in raw form may need cutting and polishing, I admit, but that does not mean they are not worth value. And some have already been burnished to a shine through much handling.
I will go add another gleam to the Middle-earth corpus.
Monday, December 23, 2013
20131223.0719
As I noted yesterday (albeit briefly), I spent the last week in the Texas Hill Country, reconnecting with family. I enjoyed my time among my people--and even among my wife's people (with more of them coming to visit at Sherwood Cottage tomorrow)--and I even managed to behave myself. Mostly. It was a remarkably good trip, overall, and I am glad to have taken it. (I must admit, however, to being glad to be back at Sherwood Cottage; sleeping in my own bed is better, and it helps to be among my materials for The Work.)
As with any trip back home for those who have left, there is the issue of being in a place where people knew you when, as my former bishop commented (and I have discussed). I was fortunate enough to have few old ghosts arise to haunt me; I saw, but did not have a chance to speak with, a puppy-love person, and a performer with whom my father and late great uncle worked was on stage at a show I attended. (Yes, there are shows in the Texas Hill Country. No, they are not all country and western or pickin' and grinnin', although many are.) So I was fortunate to not have to endure so many reminders of old idiocies and youthful indiscretions as I usually have when I am where I grew up, and that, I think, did much to make the trip a good one.
I have observed (although whether here or only in talking with my wife, I do not recall) that on family visit trips there is an often unfortunate tendency to fall back into older patterns of relations and behaviors. We revert to what we remember being with the people we see--and this tends to mean a return to the dependent/provider relationship. It tends to suppress or abnegate the growth that years and distances have compelled, doing much to undermine what has hopefully been the self-betterment of all involved. And that is not good for parents who have been able to focus upon themselves again now that the immediate and immense burden of raising children is lifted from them. (I know that they will always be parents, but there is a difference between being the parent of adults who are able to make their own way and the parent of dependent children who cannot.) It is not good for the returning children, either, although I know it sounds much as if I whine to point it out.
On this last trip, I feel that I did not slip, or I did not slip so far, as I have in the past. I was not a pleasant or easy child, I know, and I have apologized to my parents more than once for the trouble I know I caused them while I was growing up (there; I may well not yet really be an adult, although I had damned well better get there if I am not). My own return to that does nobody any good--and I think it is the same for many others.
As with any trip back home for those who have left, there is the issue of being in a place where people knew you when, as my former bishop commented (and I have discussed). I was fortunate enough to have few old ghosts arise to haunt me; I saw, but did not have a chance to speak with, a puppy-love person, and a performer with whom my father and late great uncle worked was on stage at a show I attended. (Yes, there are shows in the Texas Hill Country. No, they are not all country and western or pickin' and grinnin', although many are.) So I was fortunate to not have to endure so many reminders of old idiocies and youthful indiscretions as I usually have when I am where I grew up, and that, I think, did much to make the trip a good one.
I have observed (although whether here or only in talking with my wife, I do not recall) that on family visit trips there is an often unfortunate tendency to fall back into older patterns of relations and behaviors. We revert to what we remember being with the people we see--and this tends to mean a return to the dependent/provider relationship. It tends to suppress or abnegate the growth that years and distances have compelled, doing much to undermine what has hopefully been the self-betterment of all involved. And that is not good for parents who have been able to focus upon themselves again now that the immediate and immense burden of raising children is lifted from them. (I know that they will always be parents, but there is a difference between being the parent of adults who are able to make their own way and the parent of dependent children who cannot.) It is not good for the returning children, either, although I know it sounds much as if I whine to point it out.
On this last trip, I feel that I did not slip, or I did not slip so far, as I have in the past. I was not a pleasant or easy child, I know, and I have apologized to my parents more than once for the trouble I know I caused them while I was growing up (there; I may well not yet really be an adult, although I had damned well better get there if I am not). My own return to that does nobody any good--and I think it is the same for many others.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
20131222.1739
As might be guessed from the erraticism of my work in this webspace over the past days, I have been away. "Away" in this case meant a trip to the Texas Hill Country to see my family and part of my wife's, and we had a good visit. It will likely be the last such before our child is born--and the families are already excited about the impending arrival. Several gifts have already been given the child, despite the child's not having been born yet. And others were given to my wife and me, gifts we were thankful to receive.
After a long day of driving, though, I am weary. More, there is still much to do today. Thus, today I write only briefly, although I fully intend to have more normal a bit of commentary tomorrow...
After a long day of driving, though, I am weary. More, there is still much to do today. Thus, today I write only briefly, although I fully intend to have more normal a bit of commentary tomorrow...
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