Category Archives: Memories

Destabilizing. And That’s OK.

Samhain                                                              Thanksgiving Moon

A further extrapolation on the narrative fallacy and the self.  (see post below)  This notion, destabilizing as it is, makes sense to me. Which is ironic if you get the gist here.

It helps explain the existential panic I sometimes feel when my mood darkens, sometimes with a known trigger, sometimes not.  Yesterday was such a time for me.  When I have conversations about my work, Missing in this case, the potential for a seismic tremor heightens.  Of course, these tremors, unlike earth bound temblors, can produce good shakes and bad shakes.

Stefan’s careful analysis of what he felt worked and what didn’t, which I appreciated, especially in the detail and clarity which he offered so freely, unsettled me.  Geez, if this much still needs to happen and this is the 4th draft, what’s wrong with me?  WRONG.  OH.  I’VE FELT WRONG BEFORE. AND AHA THIS PROVES THIS OTHER TIMES RIGHT.  WHAT WERE THE OTHER TIMES?  UHH.  CAN’T REMEMBER EXACTLY, BUT THE FEELING, THE FEELING’S THE SAME.  ISN’T IT?

This went on as I drove away from his house.  I would remember the tell yourself this is a good workout, that you’re not tired article I read in the New York Times yesterday so I would tell myself that this was temporary, not anchored, that it was good to get feedback, that I was having a good day.  I had a friend who cared enough to be straight with me.  oops.  felt bad.  I’m having a good day, driving in the city.  There’s Knox Presbyterian, “living the obedient life”, yep, still conservative.  Need some tea, Verdant’s all the way over in Seward, but, hey.  The Teashop is just ahead on Lyndale.  Oh, good, I’ve never followed through on my writing, never got published, never tried hard.  Never. Never.  Never.  Never.  Here I am 66 and I’ve bounced from this to that.  Bad.  Wrong. Not followed through.  Old now and not ever going to follow through.  Always bad, wrong.  Wait.  There’s the Teashop.  I’ll buy tea here, not drive all the way over to Seward then have to loop back to Kramarczuk’s.  After the teashop.  Bought a half an ounce of tea for $25.  Stupid.  Hey, I can just loop around, no cars in the lane going the other way on Lyndale.  Oh.  Didn’t look behind me in my own lane, guy lets me go.  Maybe I’m too old to drive.  How will I know?  Bad.  Wrong.  

Finally, I talked myself into the moment.  Cut the loop.  The wind drove the golden leaves, the maple leaves, they are golden.  They swirl up in the air, blown high, come down.  Fall.  This is fall and it’s happening right before my eyes, as I eat this Italian sausage, which is not so hot, still I’m right in the middle of this wonderful seasonal transition.  I’m in this moment now, neither bad nor good, just here.  Part of another fall.  It’s come again, as it has come before and will come again.  And I will be in it, part of it.  Neither bad nor good.  Right nor wrong.  I calmed down, my center returned and the jaggedy feelings left my body, those tensed muscles relaxing.  

The feeling tone remained, like a bad taste, and tried to reassert itself, grind itself into the wormhole that is a certain narrative arc about my self. Finally, the arc I prefer, the one that lets me move forward, not get stuck, took hold.  I had woven my narrative around this temporary dis-ease and let it be.  Part of my life, yes, but not all of it.  Whew.

 

The Narrative Fallacy

Samhain                                                             Thanksgiving Moon

Narrative fallacy.  I read about it first last night in a book on Amazon.com called “The Everything Store.”  Jeff Bezos refers to it as a construct he read in the book, “The Black Swan.”  It struck me as very post modern.

Here’s how I understand it.  The narrative fallacy occurs when we use our logical, cause and effect seeking mental habits to place often chaotic events in a series that we can understand.  This means leaving out details, rearranging troublesome sequences, condensing complex interactions.  We make a story out of the data available to us.

I haven’t read the Black Swan but I imagine this is how Black Swans (big problems that seem to come out of nowhere) slip under the perceptions of people trying to evaluate risks.

This squares with an especially nettlesome idea in current neuroscience (the author may have gotten it from that source) that suggests our self is a narrative fallacy.  That is, our self is a story we construct out of certain pieces of our life, knitting this into the fabric and leaving that out.  In this view the self is not solid and unchanging, it’s not even relatively solid but changing slowly over time.  No, the self is fluid from beginning to end, a long long novel with ourselves in a starring role, but the script keeps getting handed to us, marked up with changes.

This partly comes from the plasticity of memory and the proven unreliability of human memory.  We now know eye witnesses, once the gold standard of detective fiction and fact, are the least likely to portray events accurately.  Not because the eye witnesses lie, but because our capacity to remember events as they happened is poor.  Emotions skew them, bias skews them, our senses feed us less than reliable data.  We’re a walking hodge podge of experiences.

(sarah fishburn)

The narrative fallacy neatly explains the role of story.  As Bill Schmidt’s Tom Clancy quote says, “Fiction is not like reality.  Fiction has to make sense.”  A key role of fiction is to reassure us of the intelligibility of the world.  The world is not, in fact, intelligible.  There’s just too much going on.  We have to edit our experience to have any hope of using it to our advantage.

Why is it post modern?  Because post modernism (I’m not convinced this is a very good term.) insists on the unreliability of any narrative. [think about this idea in relation to the photograph below of a Traditional Catholic service in Kitchener, Ontario] As a direct corollary of this, though, there is the role of agency, the role of narrative creator.  That gives all of us a key role in constructing the future we want.  We can claim neither fundamentals from so-called foundational documents or ideas, nor can we rely on history as other than story; but, we can rely on the necessity of our role in creating a new story, one constructed in a way that seems to us true, just and fair.  Even beautiful.  Knowing that none of these categories are more than markers for working or not working.

Wood and Leeks

Fall                                                                   Samhain Moon

Split wood from the two cedars and the ironwood stacked.  Plenty of kindling sized wood, some paper, smaller sized chunks of wood, plus two pallets to break up and split.  Then, out there, lying yet in the woods, the tapering trunk of the ironwood plus two thick branches, waiting to be cut into true bonfire sized logs for the outside of the fire.  Thought I might have to buy some wood, but no.  All I need right here.

All the leeks harvested, the tops trimmed off and waiting in the hod for the hoses to thaw out so I can wash the roots outside.  It’s chicken pot pie day here at Artemis Hives and Gardens.  After, that is, a visit to the city to see Audacious Eye and have lunch.

There will be three pots, a chicken in every pot, boiling away with garlic and onions, celery and carrots sauteed first, then the water, then the chicken.  The leeks in another pot, also boiling.  After some time, corn and peas and pearl onions into the chicken pots.  At that point the chickens come out and get plopped onto cookie sheets where the flesh comes off and gets cut up into smaller chunks.  Which get put back into the pots, again one chicken each.

Get out the pie tins with pie dough in them and the box of Pappy’s dough so it can soften.

Add the leeks to the pots and thicken with corn starch or Wondra.  Tricky step, probably will do it in smaller bowls.  The thickened chicken broth with chicken, peas, corn, leeks, pearl onions, carrots and celery spread out in the pie tins.

Flatten that Pappy’s with a rolling pin, always flouring the surface, make it big enough to cover the pie tin, put it on like a night cap, crimp the edges, make marks in it to let the steam out.  Toss in the oven.  Wait a while.

Chicken pot pies.  Most will be frozen, probably all but one.

Into the Weeds

Fall                                                                               Samhain Moon

Additional on post just below.  There is a tendency in quasi-religious, new agey thought to condemn doing and promote being, especially being here now.  Nothing wrong with being here now, of course.  Especially since we really have no other choice.  This seems like a false dichotomy to me however.

Even in our doing we are being and in our being we are doing.  This is only to say that doing entails presence to the world and to ourselves, albeit in a different way from the semi-mystical state of being here now.  If you’re a fan of Zeno and his paradox, then you might craft an argument about never changing out of the now, but in other ways of explaining reality, even being here now is impossible.  Why?  Oh, the earth moves around its poles, through the sky and your body digests food, engages in symbiotic exchanges, responds to changes in temperature and light, shifts nourishment into cells and waste out. Change, that old black magic, has its hooks so deep into the universe we often never notice it, even when it moves with the speed of light.

However, if you go back to the observations I’ve been making about circular time, the repetitive nature of change, how it loops back on itself in predictable patterns, perhaps, yes, in more of a spiral than a bicycle wheel, but still Fall then again Fall, and Winter then again Winter, and Birth then again Birth, and Death then again Death, well, if you consider them, then the cycle from one now to the next is Now then again Now.  We’re never ever out of the now, yet we experience movement.

These paradoxes point to being and doing as a false dialectic, not poles resonating with each other like, say liberal and conservative or life and death or true and false, but as alternating ways to explain the same thing, our hereness.  As Heidegger points out, we are thrown into the world at a particular place, to particular parents and in a particular time. I would push that one step further and say we are thrown into each moment in a particular place, in a particular time, with the unique, particular body/mind that is you.

In each moment our particular response to the now has doing characteristics and being characteristics.  Perhaps another way to say this is that part of us is at rest while other parts are engaged with the now, acting on it or being acted upon by it. We do both at the same time, being and doing.

So what’s all the fuss?  It’s about attention.  When all of our very valuable attention focuses on the action or work or active play of  a moment, then we draw ourselves from the beingness of that moment.  When we focus on the beingness, we draw ourselves away from the doing.  But both states co-exist, no matter on which we focus.

The key move here is about attention.  We can and do shift our attention from different aspects of our life to others, from ourselves to the world or moment into which we are thrown.  If we spend all of our attention on doing, then we neglect the deeper, more reflective aspect of our selves.  Conversely, if we spend all of our attention on being, then we neglect matters necessary for our survival.

In the rhythm of your day, your year, your life, you can choose to attend to the activity, the work, the “what you do.”  This might entail lists or calendar marking or goals and objectives or satisfying layers of cloth or manuscript pages.  Likewise you can choose to attend to the beingness, the what you are.  This might entail meditation, silence, counting breaths, noticing plant and animal life at a close, intimate level.

The point?  What do you do, is a valid question.  So is who are you?  They might have the same answer.

Let the Bells Begin to Ring

Lughnasa                                                                Honey Moon

The end of August is less than a week away.  Labor Day is the next holiday.  Once again a year has progressed from spring to growing season to the beginning of harvest.  Do you remember that feeling you had, as a kid, when summer vacation was in its last moments? You got in one more baseball game, one more forbidden trip to the pit, one more search through the alleys for pop bottles to sell at the grocery store.  You may have gone to a county fair or the state fair, had cotton candy and looked at the pigs, seen the new car models.

Then the supply list for the new school year would show up.  Those lists were, for me anyhow, like the reading of marriage bans, the announcement that something wonderful was about to happen.  Yes, I loved school and I loved the paste and the number 2 lead pencils and the watercolors and the rounded scissors.  Shopping for school supplies was a joyful time.  I know it wasn’t for everybody, but all I could see ahead was another year of learning, of time away from home, of lunches and recesses with friends.

In fact, I still love it and the little frisson of something amazing just around the corner still tickles me as the weather begins to cool (I know, we’ll skip this year right now) and Back to School flyers start showing up with the newspaper. (I know, lots of folks don’t read the newspaper anymore.)  I’m feeling it now and this year it seems to run in tandem with the harvest, as it used to in the days of agriculture’s direct influence on our school year.

As the harvest has peaked, the fallow time has begun to insert its presence, a golden leaf here or there, plants dying back like the sugar snap peas and garden beds emptied of their onions, garlic, beets and carrots now mulched.  These are clues, just like the changing of the sun’s position in the sky, that stir up that old hunger, the part of me that thirsts for new learning, new ideas, new facts, new ways of looking at the world.

I’m ready.  Let the bells begin to ring.

Back Then in Nowthen

Lughnasa                                                                   Honey Moon

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nowthenlogoThe Nowthen Threshing Show.  I’ve seen the notices for this event since we moved up here 20 years ago, but never got around to going.  This year Kate and I drove over.  It’s only a few miles away.  I imagined a few steam driven machines, maybe some old tractors.  Boy was I off.  This event had acres of cars parked east of a huge exhibit area with a track for the Parade of Power that ran around a circular railroad track for the small gauge Nowthen Railroad.  On the south side of the tracks sat food trucks with “walking IMAG0826tacos” and “BLT tacos.”  Behind them, further south, was a large flea market.  I remarked to Kate that it would have been interesting in Ecuador, here not so much.

On the north side of the tracks was a small depot for the Nowthen Railroad and behind it, across the track for the Parade of Power (any older farm machinery that moved on its own) was a blacksmith’s shop with three forges and older men with younger apprentices working metal.  This building also had a woman spinning thread.  A craft building had hooked rugs, quilts, knick-knacks and a bit of pottery.

There was a letterpress building with an old Heidelberg letterpress, a small press versionIMAG0831 of the giant Heidelberg that printed the Alexandria Times-Tribune in my youth.  Behind the press was a building labeled Steam Machines.  In it were several steam pumps, all working, a large piston driven wheel that worked a generator in a long ago electricity generating plant and a crowded table about 10 feet long full of miniature steam engines powering miniature machines.

As Kate and I wandered among the buildings, the Parade of Power was underway on the 800IMAG0821track which ran between two rows of buildings.  The announcer would give the name of the equipment, its age and the owner who had restored it and, probably, drove it.  I say probably because as you can see in this photo one of the traditions of farm life was underway on this old tractor, a young girl drives it.

My favorite exhibit was the old saw mill which had this huge mobile engine driving it. 800IMAG0833The tree trunks passed through the saw shown here.  This was dangerous work, as you can see by the open saw blade, but equally dangerous were the power belts that connected the steam engines to the threshers, sawmills, silage grinders, or hay balers.

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These, too, are my people.  Political radicals, docents, environmentalists, scholars, poets and writers, and farm folk are the milieus where I feel comfortable.  As we left the parking lot later in the day, a man signaled I could come into the exit lane with the familiar flick of the right index finger above the steering wheel.  I signaled thanks the same way.

Of course, these kind of things have to interest you, but if they do, every third week of August tiny Nowthen becomes a happening place for motorheads, old farmers and folks curious about how things used to be done.

 

 

Americana

Lughnasa                                                                      Honey Moon

800IMAG0801cropped

Two slices of Americana, one yesterday and one today.  The first pictures are from the Fabric Outlet Store, a place owned by a funny Jewish guy who liked my hat.  The second are from an event that happens not 6 miles from our home every August, but to which we went for the first time today, the Nowthen Threshing Show.  I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves.

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A Closet Luddite

Summer                                                       Moon of the First Harvests

More limbing.  Removal of weed trees, escaped amur maples.  An attractive tree but one prone to wander too freely.  I like using the limbing ax.  Internal combustion engines I don’t like using.  My dislike of them precedes but gets reinforced by my ecological consciousness.  My feelings about them come in part from an inability to work with them well.  Wrenches, screw drivers, fluids, pistons all that never leapt to my hands.

Like the house, I learned all my father knew about them.  Nothing.  For example.  Car. Mower. Weedwhacker.  Lawn tractor.  Snow blower. The chainsaw is a limited and unusual exception.  And yes, I admit it, I never did anything to improve my knowledge or skills, at least not anything that worked.

On another level I fantasized about those engines, read about them, watched and applauded people who did things with different versions.  Fast things.  Like formula 1.  Indianapolis 500.  Drag racing.  Sports Car Graphic and Road and Track were two of my early magazine subscriptions.  Summer nights on Madison Avenue saw Alexandria kids drag racing.  A dangerous pursuit then, seen as the acme of juvenile self-destructiveness.

So there was this duality in my feelings: admiration and loathing.  As I’ve gotten older, the admiration has diminished and the loathing increased.  The Toyota folks at Carlson Toyota take care of our vehicle and I’m very glad for it.  They’re good at what they do and I can’t escape driving.  I’m left with a paradox, a contradiction, a necessary dilemma.

For those of you who love them, my admiration side understands.  Totally.  For those of you like me who would not be sorry to see them go.  I’m with you. 100%.

This One Is A Miracle

Summer                                                            Moon of the First Harvests

What a wonder.  A black president speaking as a black man about the lived experience of young black men.  Trayvon Martin, he said, could have been him 35 years ago.  A young black man in hoodie, suspected of, what?  WWB?  Walking while black.  Maybe about to do, something.  And something, wrong.  Bad.  Hearing clicks on car door locks as you walk by.  Being followed in stores.  Indelible and seemingly inevitable.

Yet, of course, he is not Trayvon.  No, he is the president of the most powerful nation the world has ever known.  Maybe the most powerful it will ever know.  And even he, with all that power at his disposal, literally at his command, can imagine himself into the life of a young man seen, paradoxically, as both powerless and invisible and all too visible and dangerous.

Racism and its even more evil progenitor, slavery, stand out as the original sin, the stain on this city on a hill, this beacon of freedom and hope.  We white folk have done this and that, but not too much and now the time of our dominance is passing.  This nation will become a colorful quilt with white as one shade among many rather than the shade against which all others stand inferior.  May that day come soon.

There are many things I feel privileged to have witnessed.   The civil rights movement. The anti-war movement.  Feminism and the rise of women. A world in which the whole planet must be taken into account when making decisions.  A man walking on the moon. Routine space flight. The discovery of extraterrestrial planets.  The discovery of DNA.  The global recognition that the people can challenge their government.  And win.  So many things.  These and more.

But, this one, a black president speaking about the lived experience of being a young black man.  This one is a miracle.

Home

Summer                                                       Moon of the First Harvests

Home.  Back in the early 90’s when we lived on Edgcumbe Road in St. Paul, I felt a sense of homecoming when I crossed Ford Parkway.  I had crossed into home turf.  It’s taken a long while for a similar feeling to take hold here in Andover, but now, as I turn off Highway 10 onto Round Lake Boulevard, that sense of homecoming greets me.

Yes, it’s marked by Baker’s Square, Wendy’s, Conoco, Burger King and a Holiday station, but, they’re our franchises, there for our use.  The feeling gets even stronger going up Round Lake and begins to thicken at Round Lake itself where the water is on the left and the peat bog fields of Field’s Truck Farms are on the right.  Those fields are the remains of an old lake, eutrophied completely, a process that has advanced a good ways in Round Lake.

As I turn onto 153rd Ave NW, our property shows up about 1,000 feet in and I see the 6 foot chain link fence we had installed because Celt, our earliest Irish Wolfhound, climbed the four-foot fences to go greet passers-by on the street.  This particular fence was put in place after a derecho felled a large poplar and destroyed the one we had originally extended from four feet to six.  There is, too, the truck gate, 10 feet wide that we had installed because we wanted to get trucks from nurseries and our own trucks back onto our property.

The trees have grown up, grapevines have covered them, the prairie grass has morphed over time but has a pleasing current configuration.  On the six foot fence itself, the border of the prairie grass, grows our wild grapes.  Wild grapes that we pick in the fall for jams and jellies.

The driveway, the sloped driveway that creates its own stories in the winter, goes up to the three car garage that makes our house look as if we live as an adjunct to the garages.  On the right going up is a rusted and unused basketball hoop, an emblem, as at so many homes, of a boy, now gone.  In the garage itself we have a unique five stall dog feeding set up that we used when our pack was at its peak and we had five Irish Wolfhounds at once.

Do you see what I mean?  Home has an accretion of memories, memories attached to physical things like lakes and peat bogs, fences and basketball hoops.  This is not somebody else’s memories but our memories, our family’s memories.  It is those memories, those thick layers of past embraced constantly in the present, that make a home.

Inside the house are the same layers of memories, of guests and friends and immediate family, of dogs and workmen, nights and days, meals and passion.  It is the thickness, the particularity of it all, that makes this our home and not someone elses.  After 20 years, we have laid down many layers of smiles, tears, hard work and love.  That’s why this is home.