Looking at my office walls I can see that I’ve become a version of what I always thought a writer was as a kid. The walls are covered with pictures and cool framed passages of writing–some of it my own. There are magnetic strips in the places where I sit to collect my thoughts and there they are, collected in scribbled blacks and reds and blues on little yellow squares of paper or on the backs of things that weren’t meant for notes and suspended from the walls on colorful round magnets.
Here I sit, sipping on a sugary mess of coffee, wondering what if anything I have to say next. I came to this place last night. I was holding a beer (the remains of which I pushed aside to plant my coffee on the solitary coaster) and grading papers. There were tortilla chips and music in the background and the whole thing felt different. It lacked the reverence of the morning session and even that kindling of desire to be in the space producing something more. I don’t know what that means–if it means anything. Here is what I do know:
Louis Pasteur said (loosely translated), “Chance favors the prepared mind.” I believe he meant to express that inspiration and intuition are cultivated through practice and, ultimately, by creating the conditions that allow for such things to flourish. Lately I have been focused on learning what that preparation and those conditions look like for me. By that I mean the ‘me’ of the present. Often I feel like I am restricting myself by relying on–catering to even–the me of the past and the me that, then, I believed I would become. I can often fall into a set of idealized behaviors and beliefs based upon an outmoded value system. Or, to quote Doc Dre, ‘Trying to turn me back to the old me.”
But he’s dead. He’s a fixed part of history and the new me has new goals, patterns, beliefs, etc. The new me takes his coffee with less cream and drinks the occasional beer. The new me wants different things out of his writing and thinks in different ways. The new me loves differently.
So, if this is to have some warm ending message then I suppose it would be that the way you do things ought to be based on who you are. Not were.
- Call. Coffee. Post. What comes next?
I spent the better part of the last 48 hours thinking about and planning a lesson for this morning’s class on AI in science fiction. The lesson planning was more like lesson learning for me, as it allowed me to advance my own understanding of the no-longer fledgling field of research and the possibilities inherent therein. I suppose from a philosophical perspective the planning was my largest leap in understanding since I began reading Simulation & Simulacra after watching the Matrix all those years ago. I mean for my teaching to be reflective of my own learning process in a way and to ignite the process of others. Movies are meant to cause conversation and discussion and to promote more than entertainment.
One thought that continually stood out throughout the process of creation was the idea of process itself. For example, I have been on the path to ‘habitizing’ this process of how and when I write the blog (2.0) for 13 days now. It takes on average 66 days to form a habit and 21 to break one. I don’t believe I lasted the full 21 in my brief repose from the talisblog, but the formation of this new process should subsist for the entire timeframe. In fact I plan to make the number, 66, something of a goal of mine moving forward academically, personally, etc. 21 is likewise to be part of my process.
I am engaged in a number of transformative processes at this point in time. One is the breaking of my reformed soda habit. I’d like to quit entirely, but I like Jack and cokes and the occasional Red Bull, so the best I am willing to allow is a great moderation. 21 days from now we will see if I’ve broken the habit of simply reaching for a soda in the ‘soda fridge’. In truth, the best option there is to remove the stimulant and replace it with a better substance for me and my jazzed up boys.
In the end it all swirls back to the idea of process and the comfort and security of that. Each morning I wake up, say good morning to my love, go downstairs to prepare coffee and languish in the stages of that process. Then my coffee and I are here at the desk writing for the next ten minutes. That process–that familiarity is extremely grounding. If my kids are with me, they become a part of that process. However, they are not always here and will eventually grow and move on, so the core process remains love, coffee, and words. There is a simplicity and a wonder in that which warms my heart and lightens my soul.
- A friend asked me if I was a jealous person. I said no. I don’t think I was lying, but I feel like the answer is incomplete. In matters of the heart I am jealous to a certain extent. That extent is less physical than emotional. I don’t understand how to share love. That continues to be a problem.
- I don’t believe my writing days are over. I don’t think the stories are gone from my mind or that my access to the stream has been revoked. I believe it is clogged the way a drain clogs from too much rough use. I know this because in moments, in flashes of shadow and movement I see stories.
I can hardly believe it has been a week since my life shifted phases and I restarted the blog. I talked about habits, basically to death, in the first few months of blogging. I probably related a lot to the Little Engine that Could (that relationship is going to be renewed shortly as I am soon to start Stephen King’s The Wastelands). The early ra ra was meant to get me excited about forming this habit. Lately the feeling is more of a settling down into what is right and important in my daily life. Connect to my love, connect with my boys, generate coffee, write. This four part harmony forms the shield over my day. I can take on the world the moment I click publish.
This feeling I get of sending words out into the digital ether reminds me of the sensation of tithing or prayer. I’m giving something of myself back to the storyspace without any real expectation of physical reward. I am not doing it to get famous or even to have people read the blog. Some (one?) do I suspect, and maybe that is part of it. Maybe I cast a phrase that impacts someone in a positive way the way script diving into quote archives occasionally yields beauty. Here’s one now:
To reach a port we must sail, sometimes with the wind, and sometimes against it. But we must not drift or lie at anchor.
That gem from Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. is housed at brainyquote alongside other gems from the same learned man. I believe he means to remind us that while the ocean of our opportunities is dark and chopped with frothy fear, it is only at sail that we can discover what exists outside of ourselves.
Lately I’ve been thinking about what exists within me and what I believe I need to feel whole. Those things are separate but exist as part of a larger whole. There is who I can be alone and who I can be when I am connected and loved and loving. I used to believe one form was less than the other. Now I am drifting towards an understanding that they are instead different kinds of living. I am entirely capable of living a life unto myself and absent of connection. It is not the same kind or style of life I would live should I let love in. That other life is not exactly better. It is an apple to an orange. It is a different way of being and the way I prefer.
That kind of thinking represents an evolution–a departure from a shore where I truly believed there was no life in living and being alone.
- I intend to go to Europe in the next ten years and enjoy that part of the world. Then I’m going back to Africa for a while. Then Asia. Ten years here on the grind and then I’m out.
If I were to write a book on love I’d tell you I am no expert–at which point you would put the book down and label me another quack with a concept. You’d be right, but if you bothered to read a bit further you’d learn there are no experts in love, just people who figured out what works for them and assume that it works for you too. I would confess to being different than that. I would confess to being someone who has screwed up love on an epic scale, like one of those epic fail videos but for love. Then I’d tell you about those failures and how I learned from them. Maybe that advice would be a little helpful.
I’m divorced. Afterwards I found the woman who I am truly meant to be with for the rest of my existence (like biblical stuff here–post life and all–the other part of of our shared soul). I’d tell you how I screwed that up fairly quickly and spectacularly and have spent the better part of my existence afterwards understanding the conditions I created in my life which led to the state we exist in now. Obviously the thing wasn’t entirely my fault, but I cannot change another human–even one so entwined in my heart as to be a part of me. Which leads me to explain the relationship between love and priorities.
Today when I woke up I checked in on my love first thing. Checking in on her is the closest I can come to waking up with her between my arms. Instead I roll over, text, and when possible, communicate. Then I checked on my kids, made sure they were handled, know they are loved, fed. Then I came here to the blog where I am doing something for me that represents me and my heart and my growth as a person. After I’ll probably curl into a video game for a while and then do some work. It isn’t entirely me-centric, but it is more than I’ve offered myself in the past. The greater part of reducing the areas in my life is having more time and energy to focus on the one’s I kept and more mental ‘grit’ to continue growing all the while.
So, here is what remains:
- Self Growth
I haven’t committed to the last and I don’t know where the 4th is headed anymore. Still, I know the first three matter and exist in order of attention for today. I also know it is okay for that order to shift, perhaps constantly, so long as I continue to hold all three parts of my being equal. So far, I do.
- I don’t think there needs to be a 3.1 ever, but never say never
I wanted to start this blog 20 minutes ago, but I got distracted by a video game and here we are. Add that to the sludge of lag that plagues everything my aging macbook tries to accomplish and therein lies the beginnings of a pattern. Yeah, I’m not in writing shape.
As I hinted at yesterday, there is a correlation between physical and mental acuity. I believe one cannot have one without spending some effort on the other. I believe this as a victim believes things they’ve seen happen to them. I believe this is precisely what ails me.
Now blogging helps. It serves as the daily tabata for my brain. My body gets no such treatment. My daily training involves figuring out how many chips I can inhale before I need to let out my belt. In truth, I consider this to be a major factor in my growing baldness. I am not entirely convinced I have a chance to reverse the trend, but I do realize what herculean efforts it will take to even ‘stop the bleeding’ in terms of treating my body to an early death.
Still, I shall rise. And fight. And figure shit out.
I’m not much of a drinker. This is evident, as I sit here with my Bulleit Bourbon that isn’t even in a whiskey glass and doesn’t use the proper ice. I own neither. I am quite new to the drinking world and I must say I do it as much for taste as for how it makes me feel–emotionally. There is something psychologically fulfilling about holding a fine drink–be it wine or harder stuff. I recognize that it has more to do with the culture of drinking and connecting to that history that follows really good alcohol than it has anything to do with a need to be inebriated. In truth I can count the number of times I’ve been drunk on one hand, and even that is too much for me.
I come from a family of drinkers. Specifically my step dad took to the bottle. It tore up his liver and ended his life by the time I was twelve. I never got over that. I remain convinced that my life to a wrong turn the day he died and I feel if I die before my kids achieve adulthood the same twist of wrongness could follow them. I’m not saying my childhood was awful or my mom did the ‘mommy dearest’ thing. No, relative to the stuff I’ve seen in the world, I did alright as a kid. What I didn’t have was a dad and that meant I never learned from anyone but myself and David Hasselhoff how to be a man.
The Hoff clearly led me astray.
Now I sit here connecting to a distinctly male history of sipping fine whiskey and through the taste connecting to a culture and even a gender that has never been entirely accepted me. I guess that is another revelation in itself: Acceptance has a value.
I continue to tackle this idea of impermanence and this related concept of living in the now. I am not very good at it though. I get bogged down in things and get lost in the oft awful fantasy of ‘what if?’
The reason I write all this is to reflect on the idea that happiness is not a straight line. It is a series of moments, a wave that crashes over you again and again… or not at all. Perhaps that serves as an exaggeration. Everyone finds happiness. I used to find it more than others, but nowadays I’m about average. That right there speaks to a lot of things: My average and the normal average is entirely different. This gets into the idea of both racial and financial inequality where people are dealing with change that reduces their averages, or so they think.
So, what does it all come down to? Understanding that happiness is a journey. You aren’t going to be happy all day every single day. If you were, the idea of sadness would be criminal and the thought of happiness would be, well, limited. See, too much of a good thing is a bad thing and maybe it is okay to have less happiness in order to appreciate how good it actually feels.
The same can be said of sex. Or coffee. One becomes numbed to the effects of both overtime.
Still not the one.
This is closer, and if I mess with it long enough I might find a way to use this and feel completely good about it. Feels like that moment in the Matrix where the Oracle says, ‘maybe in the next life.’
Meanwhile in this life the kids sit a room away watching the season finale of The Flash without me. Its kind of like they watched One-Punch Man without me–like they’ve become independent spirits untethered from their pa. This is not entirely acceptable. Expected, yes. Not acceptable.
Nor is the extremely low wordcount.
I saw the result of that today. I walked by the Author’s Row at Phoenix Comicon where I saw guys I’ve worked with and friends who are doing it big in the writing world and here I am late on a draft. Low wordcount. The idea that I would be able to get stories done in a speedy fashion seems fictional. At least at the moment. I gotta get back to crawling, so I can raise up off my haunches and walk amongst these contemporaries. As opposed to being a middling and rarely published author whose ten minutes tends to represent the better part of his writing efforts as of late.
Still not the one. Not yet.
*Note: This post didn’t get uploaded on Friday because I was too lazy. I’ll explain in tonight’s post.
Spending some time away from division meetings at the collegiate level has reminded me of the disconnect between how colleges are run/assessed and how students are taught. While teaching is/should be at the heart of what we do at any school, it feels like the administration of and analysis/reporting of that teaching is a larger part of what teachers actually do.
In teaching writing I often talk about the 60/40 and 80/20 rules In critical analysis I invite the students to structure their work as 60% evidence and 40% analysis and argumentation. Science pushes that evidence vs. analysis spread to 80/20. This is merely my rule and doesn’t reflect the actual functioning of the multiverse. It does, on the other hand, create a fair comparison to the to what the functioning role of a community college professor feels like. 60-80% of these meetings have little to do with the actual teaching.
We are focused on collecting and reporting data. We are focused on assessing individuals, classes, and programs. We speak a jargon-filled language that inevitably bleeds into the classroom and into how we communicate with students who don’t really need to hear or learn our language.
A part of this meeting/working time is about building community amongst the teachers. Now a lot of that community is forged in the mutual disdain for such meetings, but beyond this we do effort to create real communication and real differences and consistency between what is taught between the levels and classes and how that is carried out. I would love to see a school where the classes offer the same basic content from top flight instructors who all approach it from a very different angle–so much so that variants of students would be super engaged in both class and community. Jargon free: I want good teaching that looks different in each class.
One can dream.
I have privilege.
Whenever I step on a court or a field there is a level of respect offered to me that doesn’t go to non-black players. Without knowing me and despite the pregnant-like gut, I am considered a top athlete. I have access to scholarships and opportunities that others will never have. I am looked to in order to join circles that lack faces that look like my own, so those circles may be able to say they know my people and my plight and, above all else, my privilege.
It has been this way since I’ve gone to predominantly white schools. There remains a baseline assumption that I can ball, no matter the sport. This is often accompanied by an assumption of a skillset that I largely do not possess. No, I cannot hotwire a car. No, I don’t know how to find a dealer. No, there is no cousin in prison (anymore). These assumptions afford a certain level of privilege and respect in certain environments. As I said before, I am never the last one picked for a pick up game though I often should be. Instead I am looked to as a natural leader, a captain among inferior men.
Thus is my privilege, one born of athletics and a presumed toughness that makes me right for the court. After all, weren’t my people bred to be bad ass? Did we not survive some of the worst persecution and torture known in the history of man? don’t our ancestors bear the scars of whips, the PTSD of the master’s touch?
Are we not children of the oppressed?
I write these words as an echo of recent quarrels. Listen to a middle class white student and you will here a constant refrain: They are the oppressed and we, the minority, are the children of privilege and handouts and opportunities that they were never afforded.
Perhaps in a sense they are right. There is no minority scholarship for middle class whites. There is no expectation of Physical prowess or street smarts. They lack the privilege into which I was born.
But this does not mean they lack privilege themselves. Perhaps they ought to acknowledge theirs as I have mine.