For all my talk of mooses on my journey to the north shore of Lake Superior they are hardly the signature animal of my trip. Yes, one is adorning the mug from which I am currently drinking coffee, and it's quite possible that within a mere 50 miles of me, at this very moment, there is a moose ambling along in some soft, marshy ground. But that is hardly the same as having to say to my wife "I'm not sure if we can get down to the lake shore just now. The trail is all clogged up with moose."
No, for sheer presence and demanded consideration on these trips, it is the lowly fly that repeatedly seizes the crown of the animals. It is a certain kind of a crown, and ever so tiny, but whatever that crown is, it definitely belongs to the fly. When we first walked into our lake house here a neat dozen flies swirled and basked in the luxury of our kitchen. When we went boating on Lake Superior we were the tasty snack that great extended families of flies had been excitedly waiting for all summer, and as often as not in the morning it is a single fly that, dancing on us, buzzing us, and crawling on us, insists that we greet the day. "C'mon," The fly seems to say "It's morning! Life is short! Rise and shine! Try and kill me!"
"All right all right." I say sleepily as I make a clumsy, annoyed swat that merely whacks myself in the head.
And yet for all this the flies are not too bad this time of year here. I sit now writing before the windows completely undisturbed. I doubt there is a single fly active in our entire house. I could likely go out onto the blissful balcony and be bothered not at all. There is something here called cluster fly season that sounds like a piece from The Amityville Horror, flies swarming on the windows and gathered together in unrelenting masses. But that season is a month or more away. There is also black fly season which involves razor mouthed biters. That one ended some time in June though.
Last year I wrote the story (here) of my 16 hour pitched battle at this house with a single fly. I recounted how it tormented me, and of my futile attempts to destroy it. The odyssey culminated in my surprisingly catching the fly in my bare fist, on my 795th try, taking it outside, releasing it, and sharing a peaceful moment of transcendent Zen bliss with that fly out on our balcony above the lake.
This year I brought a fly swatter.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
The formation of vacation memories
The thing that I reliably forget when I go on a trip to a beautiful place, like the north shore of Lake Superior, is that all my ramped up, picture postcard visions of my journey will curl in the reality of it. I will take all my eagerness to see a moose, or my vision of the lake, or my dream of what peace is, to the actual place, and though everything looks right, when I unpack my carefully nurtured perfections, a wild wind immediately picks them up, whips them into the air, and dashes them into pieces on the rocks.
"Here I am then." I say.
My wife and I have come to this lovely Frank Lloyd Wrightesque house on the shore of Lake Superior for the second year in a row. Because we have been here, and at exactly the same time of year, it was easy to have held cherished visions of the place; the water, the view, the fires, the air, the birds, the stars. And though these visions do strangely seem to fall completely apart in the uneasy tumult of first arrival, after a day or so they mostly reassemble themselves into something wonderfully familiar, and yet entirely their own.
But I also had new ambitions for this trip. All that wild water out my door and at my feet stirred a longing to be on it. And while the rigamarole of testing and dragging up my inflatable canoe and all its attendant equipment stood as a barrier, as did my trepidation about the lakes mercurial tempestuousness, and my fear of its icy dangers, as I prepared to come here these barriers slowly broke down. That thought of me on the water, out there, part of the lake, looking up at our house rather than down at the water, floating out among the shorebirds, eye to eye with the wilderness, slowly peeled away every resistance I retained until, on the very first morning at the lake house, I was pumping up my canoe, assembling kayak paddles and life vests, and entirely ready to pursue the perfections and wonders of my small floating dream.
It was sunny and 70 degrees. The lake was much on the calmer side of its nature. I dragged the surprisingly heavy inflatable through the thick weeds and grasses and wildflowers while my wife brought our equipment. We struggled over the rocks to a suitable launching place, and we set off onto the largest freshwater lake in the world.
It was much as I presented at the beginning of my comments here. My precious visions of boating wonders, my postcard dreams, were picked up by the winds of reality and dashed to pieces on the rough stone shore. Then they were picked up by the wind and dashed some more. Then they were blown into the pine trees and ripped apart on their branches.
No, it was nothing dangerous or dramatic. The lake did not suddenly surge with despotic waves, nor did the sky abruptly peel over with darkness, issuing ominous bolts of thunderous light. It was all small things really, small but insurmountable.
My wife climbed into the boat and then I followed, my foot dowsing in freezing water as I pushed off and then immediately seizing with one of the bizarre and painful cramps my feet are prone to. As I struggled with this we oriented ourselves on the water and made sure of our ability to move up the shore, down the shore, away from the shore, and, most importantly, towards the shore. Right about at that point the swarms of biting flies found us.
The rest is a blur.
I remember looking up at our house. That was okay. And I remember seeing several of our neighbors houses along the shore, which only made me wonder how if one is going to spend a million dollars on a house why would one not focus on the beautiful and harmonious rather than on the Big and There, but admittedly my mood was not at its most forgiving by then. I have a vague sense of paddling, looking down to the stones in clear green water, and swatting. Oh, no, actually I remember the swatting clearly. I remember whacking two flies biting my knee and killing them both in a single blow. I think that was my major highlight of the whole excursion. I can remember clearly that I did not anticipate that that would be my highlight, but it was. I can even now feel the murderous triumph.
We came ashore, half stashed/half abandoned the boat, and hurried inside. I stood looking out the windows at the serene and beautiful lake in the sun. I was sweating. Sweating! I dislike sweating and feel I should be free of it if I'm going to come this far north, even in the summer, especially in the summer.
"I'm never going outside again!" I vowed to my wife.
The breeze slowly came in through the screens, and my brief flurry of sweating abated. It was quite nice in the house really. What a blissful and excellent plan to never leave it again. How wise and clever I was.
Then I heard the call of a strange bird. I scanned along our many windows searching for it, but I could not see it. I wanted to see it.
"Oh well." I said, and I stepped outside.
I walked along our long balcony following the sound of the bird. The bird flew off and disappeared, and I ended up on the the far corner of the balcony facing the woods just above where we landed our boat. The breeze was perfect. The air was wildly clean. The lake made a stirring and gentle noise on the shore that you could feel inside yourself. What was all this harmony everywhere? The world was illuminated. The miraculousness had a strange quality, and my eyes cast about for some kind of source. I looked down to the edge of the woods and saw it there, my glorious Lake Superior boating dream, dashed, by the wind and flies and cramps onto the rocks, blown into the trees and torn into thousands of pieces. There, under a gentle sun and soft light and pure air, under a clean heart and happiness, was every piece of that broken dream, identifiable now only as wildflowers.
"Here I am then." I say.
My wife and I have come to this lovely Frank Lloyd Wrightesque house on the shore of Lake Superior for the second year in a row. Because we have been here, and at exactly the same time of year, it was easy to have held cherished visions of the place; the water, the view, the fires, the air, the birds, the stars. And though these visions do strangely seem to fall completely apart in the uneasy tumult of first arrival, after a day or so they mostly reassemble themselves into something wonderfully familiar, and yet entirely their own.
But I also had new ambitions for this trip. All that wild water out my door and at my feet stirred a longing to be on it. And while the rigamarole of testing and dragging up my inflatable canoe and all its attendant equipment stood as a barrier, as did my trepidation about the lakes mercurial tempestuousness, and my fear of its icy dangers, as I prepared to come here these barriers slowly broke down. That thought of me on the water, out there, part of the lake, looking up at our house rather than down at the water, floating out among the shorebirds, eye to eye with the wilderness, slowly peeled away every resistance I retained until, on the very first morning at the lake house, I was pumping up my canoe, assembling kayak paddles and life vests, and entirely ready to pursue the perfections and wonders of my small floating dream.
It was sunny and 70 degrees. The lake was much on the calmer side of its nature. I dragged the surprisingly heavy inflatable through the thick weeds and grasses and wildflowers while my wife brought our equipment. We struggled over the rocks to a suitable launching place, and we set off onto the largest freshwater lake in the world.
It was much as I presented at the beginning of my comments here. My precious visions of boating wonders, my postcard dreams, were picked up by the winds of reality and dashed to pieces on the rough stone shore. Then they were picked up by the wind and dashed some more. Then they were blown into the pine trees and ripped apart on their branches.
No, it was nothing dangerous or dramatic. The lake did not suddenly surge with despotic waves, nor did the sky abruptly peel over with darkness, issuing ominous bolts of thunderous light. It was all small things really, small but insurmountable.
My wife climbed into the boat and then I followed, my foot dowsing in freezing water as I pushed off and then immediately seizing with one of the bizarre and painful cramps my feet are prone to. As I struggled with this we oriented ourselves on the water and made sure of our ability to move up the shore, down the shore, away from the shore, and, most importantly, towards the shore. Right about at that point the swarms of biting flies found us.
The rest is a blur.
I remember looking up at our house. That was okay. And I remember seeing several of our neighbors houses along the shore, which only made me wonder how if one is going to spend a million dollars on a house why would one not focus on the beautiful and harmonious rather than on the Big and There, but admittedly my mood was not at its most forgiving by then. I have a vague sense of paddling, looking down to the stones in clear green water, and swatting. Oh, no, actually I remember the swatting clearly. I remember whacking two flies biting my knee and killing them both in a single blow. I think that was my major highlight of the whole excursion. I can remember clearly that I did not anticipate that that would be my highlight, but it was. I can even now feel the murderous triumph.
We came ashore, half stashed/half abandoned the boat, and hurried inside. I stood looking out the windows at the serene and beautiful lake in the sun. I was sweating. Sweating! I dislike sweating and feel I should be free of it if I'm going to come this far north, even in the summer, especially in the summer.
"I'm never going outside again!" I vowed to my wife.
The breeze slowly came in through the screens, and my brief flurry of sweating abated. It was quite nice in the house really. What a blissful and excellent plan to never leave it again. How wise and clever I was.
Then I heard the call of a strange bird. I scanned along our many windows searching for it, but I could not see it. I wanted to see it.
"Oh well." I said, and I stepped outside.
I walked along our long balcony following the sound of the bird. The bird flew off and disappeared, and I ended up on the the far corner of the balcony facing the woods just above where we landed our boat. The breeze was perfect. The air was wildly clean. The lake made a stirring and gentle noise on the shore that you could feel inside yourself. What was all this harmony everywhere? The world was illuminated. The miraculousness had a strange quality, and my eyes cast about for some kind of source. I looked down to the edge of the woods and saw it there, my glorious Lake Superior boating dream, dashed, by the wind and flies and cramps onto the rocks, blown into the trees and torn into thousands of pieces. There, under a gentle sun and soft light and pure air, under a clean heart and happiness, was every piece of that broken dream, identifiable now only as wildflowers.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Your vacation questions answered!
Not many days ago in blog time, but for me, before I went on vacation, I posed some questions for my future self about my vacation. These are the sort of questions I thought I might like to be asked. I am not exactly sure that that turned out to be entirely correct, but I do feel that it's very nice I've taken such an interest!
My vacation is done, so I propose now to answer these questions. Before I do I must say that where my answers are most terse it's probably because I wrote what amounts to a full blog post about that particular question while I was at Lake Superior, and I am just slightly resentful at being forced to tip my hand. You will be reading those posts in the next week or two to come.
1. If not moose, or if yes moose, what other northern wildlife did you see on vacation?
Er, a hummingbird. Seagulls. Loons. Late in the trip there were some chipmunk sightings in parking lots. Basically there are no animals in Northern Minnesota.
2. Did you take your little inflatable kayak out onto the mighty Lake Superior?
Yes!
3. Did you live?
I think so. But I don't know if I would recognize heaven. Is this heaven?
4. Did you find any bona fide Lake Superior agates?
No. I didn't look much though.
5. Any good thunderstorms?
Yes.
6. How many pieces of wood did you burn?
3,746. We always hope that this is what the people renting the house to us would want us to do.
7. Was the water level noticeably higher than last year?
Yes. Very much so.
8. What was the best thing you ate?
One wild strawberry.
9. What was the prettiest thing you saw?
A rainbow landing in Lake Superior pooling into gold.
10. How were you different up there?
I was taller. What kind of question is this?
11. What was most fun.
You are asking the wrong questions.
12. What was most strange.
That...lake.
13. What was most miraculous?
See nine.
14. What did you miss from home?
I am working on it. Can I get back to you?
My vacation is done, so I propose now to answer these questions. Before I do I must say that where my answers are most terse it's probably because I wrote what amounts to a full blog post about that particular question while I was at Lake Superior, and I am just slightly resentful at being forced to tip my hand. You will be reading those posts in the next week or two to come.
1. If not moose, or if yes moose, what other northern wildlife did you see on vacation?
Er, a hummingbird. Seagulls. Loons. Late in the trip there were some chipmunk sightings in parking lots. Basically there are no animals in Northern Minnesota.
2. Did you take your little inflatable kayak out onto the mighty Lake Superior?
Yes!
3. Did you live?
I think so. But I don't know if I would recognize heaven. Is this heaven?
4. Did you find any bona fide Lake Superior agates?
No. I didn't look much though.
5. Any good thunderstorms?
Yes.
6. How many pieces of wood did you burn?
3,746. We always hope that this is what the people renting the house to us would want us to do.
7. Was the water level noticeably higher than last year?
Yes. Very much so.
8. What was the best thing you ate?
One wild strawberry.
9. What was the prettiest thing you saw?
A rainbow landing in Lake Superior pooling into gold.
10. How were you different up there?
I was taller. What kind of question is this?
11. What was most fun.
You are asking the wrong questions.
12. What was most strange.
That...lake.
13. What was most miraculous?
See nine.
14. What did you miss from home?
I am working on it. Can I get back to you?
Sunday, August 10, 2014
The great moose announcement
I have gone on quite extensively about my journey to the North Shore of Lake Superior to see moose. I talked about my moose prospecting from many points of view. And all of this culminated in my promise that today, August 10, I would announce whether or not, on my week long journey, I saw an actual, real life, moose.
This is it. Today is the day I announce whether I saw a moose!
Unfortunately I don't know. You see, it is not August 10 for me. I got a little worried that right at the end of my vacation (August 10 is the last day of it) I might be a little sad. I was worried that I wouldn't want to just yet launch into all my post vacation blogging. I wondered if I could, just to be on the safe side, write about whether or not I saw a moose ahead of time.
This seemed pretty challenging. I was a little stumped. But then I had an idea.
What if I listed the basic scenarios, as I see them, for all the possible variations in answering the question of whether I saw a moose. I don't know how to make a box in a blog post, but I can, at the start of each scenario, put a ( ). Then, no matter how committed I am to doing nothing right up til it's time to go back to work, all I have to do is go into my (this) blog post and simply put an X in the correct ( ), like so: (X).
So that's what I'll do. I feel that surely one of the following scenarios will be basically accurate. The one that is will have a (X) before it.
This is it. Today is the day I announce whether I saw a moose!
Unfortunately I don't know. You see, it is not August 10 for me. I got a little worried that right at the end of my vacation (August 10 is the last day of it) I might be a little sad. I was worried that I wouldn't want to just yet launch into all my post vacation blogging. I wondered if I could, just to be on the safe side, write about whether or not I saw a moose ahead of time.
This seemed pretty challenging. I was a little stumped. But then I had an idea.
What if I listed the basic scenarios, as I see them, for all the possible variations in answering the question of whether I saw a moose. I don't know how to make a box in a blog post, but I can, at the start of each scenario, put a ( ). Then, no matter how committed I am to doing nothing right up til it's time to go back to work, all I have to do is go into my (this) blog post and simply put an X in the correct ( ), like so: (X).
So that's what I'll do. I feel that surely one of the following scenarios will be basically accurate. The one that is will have a (X) before it.
Did I See a Moose on Vacation?
(X) No, absolutely not. Outside of postcards and moose based bric-a-brac I did not even come close to seeing an actual moose. I did see some birds, and a squirrel. There are less than 5,000 moose in Minnesota. I was never going to see a moose.
( ) No. I thought I saw something move once though, sort of off somewhere in the shrubs and trees, and there was a sound too. This could have been any of a million different things: a frog, a bird, a hobo, a space alien, the wind, a monkey, a wolf, an animate pine cone, and so on, but one of the things it also could have been, was a moose. So I could have seen a moose, but I am uncomfortable checking a "yes" box on this basis.
( ) Yes. We were driving up to the lake house. We were on the main highway. There, on the side of the road, was a moose. It looked a bit scraggly. It happened so early in the trip, and with the sighting from a car on the highway, it just wasn't as exciting as I imagined it would be.
( ) Yes. Unless it was a dream. But it wasn't a dream! I woke in the middle of the night, and though I knew it would be bitterly cold I stepped out on the balcony of our house to take in the brilliant stars over Lake Superior. There, down just above the shoreline was a moose, nosing about. He had big antlers. He was huge. I looked at him for awhile. Then he turned and looked at me. And here's why I have this dream suspicion even though it wasn't a dream. The moose looked at me, and he winked. Then he ambled off. Well, at least he wasn't white. I would not have been able to believe it if he was a white moose.
( ) Yes. Out for a hike on the Superior Trail I mistakenly wandered onto an abandoned spur trail. Trying to cut back to the main trail I found the undergrowth got thicker and thicker. The mosquitoes were driving me insane, and I plowed off in the wrong direction and became completely lost. I wandered for a long time, growing thirsty and exhausted. Finally I missed a step on a steep hill and rolled messily to the bottom. Bruised, bitten, lost, and very thirsty I heard someone coming towards me. "Thank god" I thought "Help has arrived!" But it wasn't help. It was a moose.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
The last vacation speculation
I have been writing at a clip of three or four blog posts a day, but now I think I am mostly clear through my vacation. Sixteen blog posts are all lined up like little clockworks, ready at their designated time to act on the tension of their springs and circle out of their small doors to make their elaborate fanfare. "Toot, toot, toot" my blog posts will tinnily announce. And you will say "Ohhhh!" and then they will all circle back into their housing until the next day. All this means that when you read this one my vacation will nearly be over, at which point you'll probably start to hear a lot of posts that are actually about my vacation.
Why do I always tell you about this, about these machinations of time delays and the minutiae of how a daily blog works?
Because if there is a curtain to pull back I am the guy to do it. Pay attention to the man behind the curtain! Clerkmanifesto is the blog of disillusionment.
I have tried not to give myself too many blog assignments for my vacation. I am currently pledged to report back on whether I see a moose (expect a "no", the DNR estimated 4,350 moose lived within the state of Minnesota, which is less than the number of people who come to my library every two days or so, and I have yet to run into any of them on the shore of Lake Superior), and I am also to report on what I end up reading. This all is good because it is not homework, rather just things in the line of what I'll be doing anyway.
In that spirit I have these questions for my future self. I think they're the sort of questions I wish people would ask me when I return from vacation, but not the ones they actually ask me. So I am asking me, as one who hasn't gone on this vacation to the future me who has. Can I please have the answer to these assorted vacation questions?
1. If not moose, or if yes moose, what other northern wildlife did you see on vacation?
2. Did you take your little inflatable kayak out onto the mighty Lake Superior?
3. Did you live?
4. Did you find any bona fide Lake Superior agates?
5. Any good thunderstorms?
6. How many pieces of wood did you burn?
7. Was the water level noticeably higher than last year?
8. What was the best thing you ate?
9. What was the prettiest thing you saw?
10. How were you different up there?
11. What was most fun.
12. What was most strange.
13. What was most miraculous?
14. What did you miss from home?
As it stands I will be able to answer these to myself in a couple weeks, but for you, reading, it's just a day or two away. And I guess I'll do just that, answer these for you, just in case you wanted to know. too.
Why do I always tell you about this, about these machinations of time delays and the minutiae of how a daily blog works?
Because if there is a curtain to pull back I am the guy to do it. Pay attention to the man behind the curtain! Clerkmanifesto is the blog of disillusionment.
I have tried not to give myself too many blog assignments for my vacation. I am currently pledged to report back on whether I see a moose (expect a "no", the DNR estimated 4,350 moose lived within the state of Minnesota, which is less than the number of people who come to my library every two days or so, and I have yet to run into any of them on the shore of Lake Superior), and I am also to report on what I end up reading. This all is good because it is not homework, rather just things in the line of what I'll be doing anyway.
In that spirit I have these questions for my future self. I think they're the sort of questions I wish people would ask me when I return from vacation, but not the ones they actually ask me. So I am asking me, as one who hasn't gone on this vacation to the future me who has. Can I please have the answer to these assorted vacation questions?
1. If not moose, or if yes moose, what other northern wildlife did you see on vacation?
2. Did you take your little inflatable kayak out onto the mighty Lake Superior?
3. Did you live?
4. Did you find any bona fide Lake Superior agates?
5. Any good thunderstorms?
6. How many pieces of wood did you burn?
7. Was the water level noticeably higher than last year?
8. What was the best thing you ate?
9. What was the prettiest thing you saw?
10. How were you different up there?
11. What was most fun.
12. What was most strange.
13. What was most miraculous?
14. What did you miss from home?
As it stands I will be able to answer these to myself in a couple weeks, but for you, reading, it's just a day or two away. And I guess I'll do just that, answer these for you, just in case you wanted to know. too.
Friday, August 8, 2014
Lake Superior
This morning I was telling Jasper Fforde about Lake Superior.
Oh, why yes, I write ol' Jasper Fforde all the time these days.
This would be very impressive if he wrote back, but we are more in the communication category of, say, a small child saying prayers to god. I write him on faith. I like to pretend he is enjoying the letters. I haven't lost my mind or anything. He asked on his website for Wild Library Tales, so most days I send him some past blog post with an elaborate introduction. He did write back once that he is busy with a writing deadline and said that vaguely good things are probably coming my way. It was short, but nice. But I think I already told you about most of this and it is not our point here.
Our point is that I was talking about Lake Superior, on whose shores I will soon be staying, to a person from another land. And when you explain things to strangers, sometimes you see them in a new light.
Lake Superior.
My god, what a smug name! That's got to be some kind of lake to go around with a name like that. Superior. Imagine a mountain called "Better Than All the Other Mountains" Mountain. I'd think one would approach such a mountain with a critical eye. A mountain like that had better well have its majesty act together, it better be big, interesting, and picturesque.
Yes, I am going to Lake Superior. Have you been there? This is a lake that has thrown down the gauntlet!
Lake Baikal, Lake Titicaca, Lake Victoria, Lake Michigan, The Caspian Sea, Lake Aralb, Great Bear Lake, Lake Tanganyika, Lake Malawi, Great Slave Lake, Great Salt Lake, Lake Ladoga.
And then there is the Superior Lake. One lake to rule them all.
Lake Superior.
Well, you will hear no dissent from me. I could, for vacation with my wife, with enough effort and sacrifice, probably manage to go about anywhere. And yet we will go just a few hundred miles north. We will go just to sit and look at a lake.
And count ourselves lucky.
31,700 square miles. 1,330 feet deep. Three quadrillion gallons of water (ten percent of earth's fresh surface water, enough to cover North and South America a foot deep in water). Two point seven billion year old rocks on it's shore. The most oligotrophic lake in the world.
Lake Superior.
Yes, it means better.
Oh, why yes, I write ol' Jasper Fforde all the time these days.
This would be very impressive if he wrote back, but we are more in the communication category of, say, a small child saying prayers to god. I write him on faith. I like to pretend he is enjoying the letters. I haven't lost my mind or anything. He asked on his website for Wild Library Tales, so most days I send him some past blog post with an elaborate introduction. He did write back once that he is busy with a writing deadline and said that vaguely good things are probably coming my way. It was short, but nice. But I think I already told you about most of this and it is not our point here.
Our point is that I was talking about Lake Superior, on whose shores I will soon be staying, to a person from another land. And when you explain things to strangers, sometimes you see them in a new light.
Lake Superior.
My god, what a smug name! That's got to be some kind of lake to go around with a name like that. Superior. Imagine a mountain called "Better Than All the Other Mountains" Mountain. I'd think one would approach such a mountain with a critical eye. A mountain like that had better well have its majesty act together, it better be big, interesting, and picturesque.
Yes, I am going to Lake Superior. Have you been there? This is a lake that has thrown down the gauntlet!
Lake Baikal, Lake Titicaca, Lake Victoria, Lake Michigan, The Caspian Sea, Lake Aralb, Great Bear Lake, Lake Tanganyika, Lake Malawi, Great Slave Lake, Great Salt Lake, Lake Ladoga.
And then there is the Superior Lake. One lake to rule them all.
Lake Superior.
Well, you will hear no dissent from me. I could, for vacation with my wife, with enough effort and sacrifice, probably manage to go about anywhere. And yet we will go just a few hundred miles north. We will go just to sit and look at a lake.
And count ourselves lucky.
31,700 square miles. 1,330 feet deep. Three quadrillion gallons of water (ten percent of earth's fresh surface water, enough to cover North and South America a foot deep in water). Two point seven billion year old rocks on it's shore. The most oligotrophic lake in the world.
Lake Superior.
Yes, it means better.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Vacation books
A lot of the time I don't pay very careful attention to just what all I'm reading. I am surrounded by books working at a library, and while I don't read indiscriminately, I do read omnivorously and rapaciously. Er, well, sometimes I read a little indiscriminately. Things pile up into a confusion of literature. I don't finish books because they get lost in some drawer, need to get checked back in, or because my occasionally fragile attention gets pulled to some shiny new bauble of a book that I've come across in my relentless library wanderings.
However, being on vacation means being disconnected from the library for 18 days. This means I am forced to rely on my own library and whatever I have gathered and checked out. There is a pretty good collection of books at the lake house my wife and I are staying at, but I've seen them and they consist more, to me, of curiosities than of a lot of things I feel serious about reading. And I am reading a lot these days. Indeed my plans for vacation center on reading (well, on reading and on not seeing moose). So in the past several days I have been collecting a stack of books to read on this vacation. These books include a combination of what I have been enjoying lately, what I am pretty sure of liking, and what seems like they might be interesting gambles. But perhaps most importantly for the subject of this blog post they represent a very specific list of books I am intending to read in a specific time period. I am presented with an opportunity to take a kind of census of my reading ambitions and opportunities over an 18 day period. It's kind of a naked list. I only have so many books, so I don't have much room for books that secretly make me look good or for things that are too experimental or challenging. It's vacation.
I have decided to list my collected books, my small, intentional, vacation library. Then I will report back at the end of it as to what I actually read, how I liked it, and if I learned anything fascinating about my reading habits.
I hope I don't learn anything fascinating about my reading habits. That sounds a bit frightening.
Here is the list with a modest amount of commentary:
1. Small Gods by Terry Pratchett
I am, as you will see, on a strong Terry Pratchett kick. I consider this likely to be read.
2. Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett
Also likely to be read.
3. Night Watch by Terry Pratchett
I am least interested in this one and expect my Terry Pratchett binge to fizz out here.
4. Congo by Michael Crichton
Once upon a time I found his books super compelling, but never read this one, so I thought I might like to see...
5. Hercule Poirot The Complete Short Stories by Agatha Christie
Read the first fifth or so of these before getting sidetracked. I feel there is a good chance I will read more of these.
6. The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri
Looked good while shelving, but I consider it the absolute least likely to be read of all these books
7. How Green was my Valley by Richard Llewellyn
Also pretty unlikely, but I am looking for some scenic magic I think.
8. The Education of Little Tree by Forrest Carter
See above!
9. The Cat Who Came For Christmas by Cleveland Amory
No, not a mystery, an eighties bestseller (though I would have guessed sixties!). I am still searching for the great cat book. It's like a quest!
10. Bless Me Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya
It seems like every single time I shelve in fiction, I shelve this book. I have finally succumb.
11. The Eye of Zoltar by Jasper Fforde
Advance reading copy of an absolute favorite author's new book. I have had it, thanks to Marcus, for a couple weeks and have been holding off on reading it for the lake house. This is the single book I feel absolutely certain that I will read. It is the third in a fabulous YA series (Chronicles of Kazam), and I was going to read the first two in preparation, but, a. I can't find them though I thought I had them here somewhere, and, b. I remember them pretty clearly since I read them like four times last summer.
12. Mama Makes Up Her Mind by Bailey White
Late addition of a witty, tone rich nineties bestseller that I found laying around when I went to gather these books for this blog post. The book is basically blog posts, or, well, all right, short essays. I am surprised to see this is the only reread on my list.
13. New Watch by Sergei Lukyanenko
Surprise addition to the terrific urban fantasy series (Night Watch, which is curiously unrelated to my book number three!). Immensely and enjoyably Russian.
That's it, 13, and yet I am vaguely worried I don't have enough. I probably do have enough, but I also feel a strange compulsion to go pick up a copy of Steinbeck's Tortilla Flat and Cannery Row. I don't know why. I thought I might like to reread them.
I will report back. Wait here.
However, being on vacation means being disconnected from the library for 18 days. This means I am forced to rely on my own library and whatever I have gathered and checked out. There is a pretty good collection of books at the lake house my wife and I are staying at, but I've seen them and they consist more, to me, of curiosities than of a lot of things I feel serious about reading. And I am reading a lot these days. Indeed my plans for vacation center on reading (well, on reading and on not seeing moose). So in the past several days I have been collecting a stack of books to read on this vacation. These books include a combination of what I have been enjoying lately, what I am pretty sure of liking, and what seems like they might be interesting gambles. But perhaps most importantly for the subject of this blog post they represent a very specific list of books I am intending to read in a specific time period. I am presented with an opportunity to take a kind of census of my reading ambitions and opportunities over an 18 day period. It's kind of a naked list. I only have so many books, so I don't have much room for books that secretly make me look good or for things that are too experimental or challenging. It's vacation.
I have decided to list my collected books, my small, intentional, vacation library. Then I will report back at the end of it as to what I actually read, how I liked it, and if I learned anything fascinating about my reading habits.
I hope I don't learn anything fascinating about my reading habits. That sounds a bit frightening.
Here is the list with a modest amount of commentary:
Vacation books for 18 days (in no order)
1. Small Gods by Terry Pratchett
I am, as you will see, on a strong Terry Pratchett kick. I consider this likely to be read.
2. Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett
Also likely to be read.
3. Night Watch by Terry Pratchett
I am least interested in this one and expect my Terry Pratchett binge to fizz out here.
4. Congo by Michael Crichton
Once upon a time I found his books super compelling, but never read this one, so I thought I might like to see...
5. Hercule Poirot The Complete Short Stories by Agatha Christie
Read the first fifth or so of these before getting sidetracked. I feel there is a good chance I will read more of these.
6. The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri
Looked good while shelving, but I consider it the absolute least likely to be read of all these books
7. How Green was my Valley by Richard Llewellyn
Also pretty unlikely, but I am looking for some scenic magic I think.
8. The Education of Little Tree by Forrest Carter
See above!
9. The Cat Who Came For Christmas by Cleveland Amory
No, not a mystery, an eighties bestseller (though I would have guessed sixties!). I am still searching for the great cat book. It's like a quest!
10. Bless Me Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya
It seems like every single time I shelve in fiction, I shelve this book. I have finally succumb.
11. The Eye of Zoltar by Jasper Fforde
Advance reading copy of an absolute favorite author's new book. I have had it, thanks to Marcus, for a couple weeks and have been holding off on reading it for the lake house. This is the single book I feel absolutely certain that I will read. It is the third in a fabulous YA series (Chronicles of Kazam), and I was going to read the first two in preparation, but, a. I can't find them though I thought I had them here somewhere, and, b. I remember them pretty clearly since I read them like four times last summer.
12. Mama Makes Up Her Mind by Bailey White
Late addition of a witty, tone rich nineties bestseller that I found laying around when I went to gather these books for this blog post. The book is basically blog posts, or, well, all right, short essays. I am surprised to see this is the only reread on my list.
13. New Watch by Sergei Lukyanenko
Surprise addition to the terrific urban fantasy series (Night Watch, which is curiously unrelated to my book number three!). Immensely and enjoyably Russian.
That's it, 13, and yet I am vaguely worried I don't have enough. I probably do have enough, but I also feel a strange compulsion to go pick up a copy of Steinbeck's Tortilla Flat and Cannery Row. I don't know why. I thought I might like to reread them.
I will report back. Wait here.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Raspberry torture
Today, as I write this, is the first day of my summer vacation. But one needs to sort of ease into vacation. Calmness, bliss and luxurious indolence don't flood in the minute the gates are down. They have to be coaxed in. You have to fluff up the pillows for them. They're very fussy about the pillows.
And so I have one last little work story for you. After this it's probably going to be all talking about mooses and the aerodynamics of sitting around, and how enchanting all the dolphins are as they frolic under the rainbows of Lake Superior.
So, this is a story about raspberries.
I was in the break room having my supper. Due to a sort of clearing-everything-out-before-vacation austerity this was not a glamorous affair. I had the very last semi-petrified corner piece of a huge pan of enchiladas. Strangely, though, it was still pretty good. Just, there wasn't enough. I also had a failed attempt to make mango syrup that had been turned into ice cream that, realistically speaking, was inedible. I was giving that one more shot, but ended up throwing it away.
Somehow, while dining upon this repast, despite the fact that I was READING, I fell into conversation with my co-worker. But, okay. She was eating something with a lot of lovely, fresh raspberries on it.
"I have so many raspberries I don't know what to do with them." She exclaimed.
I grunted. I was READING. But then again she mentioned the word raspberries.
"I have stopped even picking them and now just let them fall to the ground and rot." She continued.
I quailed in horror.
She told me a lot about her over thriving raspberry bushes. I told her about how mine do the same, spreading wildly, expanding constantly, but that they refuse to produce any more than 14 raspberries a summer. I think there's too much shade for them. Then I started reading again. This caused her to tell me about all the things she had done with the raspberries. She told me about all the ways they had been eating them at her house, the parfaits, the sauces, the binges. She told me about how many they had frozen. She told me about how heavy the buckets get when you are out filling them up every single day. I looked at her like someone in the headlights of an oncoming car, as if to say "You do realize you are driving directly at me. Hello? Do you see me here?"
Then she started to tell me about all the people she had given raspberries to before she could not think of anyone else to give raspberries to. "I gave a bunch to the neighbor who mows my lawn. I gave some to the mailman. I gave some to these 18 relatives. I gave some to a couple of people walking down my street. I gave some to a couple of stray dogs. I went down to the local garden store and stood in front giving them away. Then I gave up. I had no one else to give them to."
This is a rough approximation of my co-worker's "giving away" speech. It was actually much longer and more detailed. Every minute or so I would look meaningfully at the library free food table, where kind and thoughtful co-workers bring in free food, like, for instance, if you have a bumper crop in your garden you can bring that in and put some there.
Each time I looked meaningfully at the free food table it seemed to make her remember another person she gave her burden of raspberries to.
This co-worker does not read my blog. I do not use my co-workers' names, without their permission, in my blog. And I do not, as a rule, write accurately and specifically about things my co-workers do if it is basically an unflattering story about an identifiable individual.
But, clearly, there are some lines of decent humanity that a co-worker can cross so far over that I am no longer able to hold to my strictest rules of respect.
It almost never happens, it takes an incredible amount, but yes, if you go racing past the line of basic human decency far enough, you should expect to appear here. It won't be pretty.
And so I have one last little work story for you. After this it's probably going to be all talking about mooses and the aerodynamics of sitting around, and how enchanting all the dolphins are as they frolic under the rainbows of Lake Superior.
So, this is a story about raspberries.
I was in the break room having my supper. Due to a sort of clearing-everything-out-before-vacation austerity this was not a glamorous affair. I had the very last semi-petrified corner piece of a huge pan of enchiladas. Strangely, though, it was still pretty good. Just, there wasn't enough. I also had a failed attempt to make mango syrup that had been turned into ice cream that, realistically speaking, was inedible. I was giving that one more shot, but ended up throwing it away.
Somehow, while dining upon this repast, despite the fact that I was READING, I fell into conversation with my co-worker. But, okay. She was eating something with a lot of lovely, fresh raspberries on it.
"I have so many raspberries I don't know what to do with them." She exclaimed.
I grunted. I was READING. But then again she mentioned the word raspberries.
"I have stopped even picking them and now just let them fall to the ground and rot." She continued.
I quailed in horror.
She told me a lot about her over thriving raspberry bushes. I told her about how mine do the same, spreading wildly, expanding constantly, but that they refuse to produce any more than 14 raspberries a summer. I think there's too much shade for them. Then I started reading again. This caused her to tell me about all the things she had done with the raspberries. She told me about all the ways they had been eating them at her house, the parfaits, the sauces, the binges. She told me about how many they had frozen. She told me about how heavy the buckets get when you are out filling them up every single day. I looked at her like someone in the headlights of an oncoming car, as if to say "You do realize you are driving directly at me. Hello? Do you see me here?"
Then she started to tell me about all the people she had given raspberries to before she could not think of anyone else to give raspberries to. "I gave a bunch to the neighbor who mows my lawn. I gave some to the mailman. I gave some to these 18 relatives. I gave some to a couple of people walking down my street. I gave some to a couple of stray dogs. I went down to the local garden store and stood in front giving them away. Then I gave up. I had no one else to give them to."
This is a rough approximation of my co-worker's "giving away" speech. It was actually much longer and more detailed. Every minute or so I would look meaningfully at the library free food table, where kind and thoughtful co-workers bring in free food, like, for instance, if you have a bumper crop in your garden you can bring that in and put some there.
Each time I looked meaningfully at the free food table it seemed to make her remember another person she gave her burden of raspberries to.
This co-worker does not read my blog. I do not use my co-workers' names, without their permission, in my blog. And I do not, as a rule, write accurately and specifically about things my co-workers do if it is basically an unflattering story about an identifiable individual.
But, clearly, there are some lines of decent humanity that a co-worker can cross so far over that I am no longer able to hold to my strictest rules of respect.
It almost never happens, it takes an incredible amount, but yes, if you go racing past the line of basic human decency far enough, you should expect to appear here. It won't be pretty.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
The grace day
Today was my last day of work before vacation. I have been exhausted and crabby and not at my absolute best, but this, my last day, was one of grace. It was one of those days where I was just quietly good at my job, solving little problems, preventing big ones. You couldn't tell it if you were there, most things happen so invisibly at the library. But I knew in that way you know things that are true, without fuss, or stridency, or a need to tell anyone. I figured out things other people weren't figuring out. I made things work. I quietly walked away. I'm telling you now, I know. But I don't mean it to say something boastful, though I recognize a small portion of the unavoidability of that. What I really mean is something about the tidy pleasure of all that competency, the satisfaction of being in touch with a place on that level.
During the day our giant check in machine broke, computers were down, and a few things went a little haywire. I told people I was going on vacation for 18 days many many times and that I thought the library was experiencing separation anxiety about my leaving for so long. I meant for that to be, um, playfully self aggrandizing. But all my co-workers seemed to ignore that part. They took it half seriously, or playfully, like why wouldn't that be true. And that was part of the grace today too. Everyone seemed so gentle towards me today, and kind, genuinely kind.
I thought it would be like I lurched painfully to the moment of a desperately needed vacation, but in the end it wasn't like that at all. In the end it was like I was gently released.
During the day our giant check in machine broke, computers were down, and a few things went a little haywire. I told people I was going on vacation for 18 days many many times and that I thought the library was experiencing separation anxiety about my leaving for so long. I meant for that to be, um, playfully self aggrandizing. But all my co-workers seemed to ignore that part. They took it half seriously, or playfully, like why wouldn't that be true. And that was part of the grace today too. Everyone seemed so gentle towards me today, and kind, genuinely kind.
I thought it would be like I lurched painfully to the moment of a desperately needed vacation, but in the end it wasn't like that at all. In the end it was like I was gently released.
Monday, August 4, 2014
Lowering expectations
To my regret I feel that I have possibly been over-confident that I will see a moose on my upcoming moose finding expedition. The more I talked about it the more my moose sighting had the feel of destiny to me. But as soon as my sense of certainty led me to declaim that not only would I be sure of seeing a moose, but I would probably see a super rare white moose, I experienced a complete crash of faith.
I don't think I am going to see a moose.
I have seven sad (or sometimes not really very sad) reasons. They are as follows:
I don't think I am going to see a moose.
I have seven sad (or sometimes not really very sad) reasons. They are as follows:
The Seven Reasons I Will Not See a Moose
1. I have offended the daffy and irritable moose gods with my hubris. Alas.
2. For all my moose expedition talk what I am really mostly going to be doing on vacation is sitting in a swanky house with my wife reading novels and looking out all the windows at Lake Superior. So unless there is a Jesus moose ambling across the water, or perhaps a tiny moose dropping from the rafters and then scurrying across the pages of one of my many books, my moose viewing chances drop to nearly nil.
3. Moose like wetlands. Mosquitoes like wetlands. I dislike mosquitoes.
4. Minnesota's moose population has dropped 69 percent since 2006. No one knows why. Maybe a mess of mysterious Minnesota moose murders?
5. I lack the necessary zen dispassion on the issue.
6. While moose are gangly and large, they have a deep understanding of the obscuring nature of shrubbery.
7. I will be far too absorbed in eating all the many wild blueberries I find.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Hubris
Hubris can be a bit like potato chips for me, or maybe ice cream. It can
be terribly appealing at certain times, but once I start it's difficult
to stop, and before long I feel quite ill. Of course, going on about
this blog being the best BLOG on the Internet would maybe be an example
of this hubris, but at this point all that aggrandizement is more like a theme than an act of hubris.
As anyone who has ever met other people would know, hubris is traditionally the bottle cap over feelings of inadequacy, failure and doom. When one of my not very good co-workers declaims bitterly over one of my other not very good co-workers and over what should be done about it all, and they are full of fury, righteousness and confidence, it is easy to see the nature of hubris in all its pulsing clarity. When it is me being full of hubris, the mechanics of the whole thing can be hard to spot because that bottle cap requires lots and lots and lots of attention.
I am no stranger to the common ailment of walking around the library full to the brim with confidence over exactly how everything should be done and how everything could be improved and how everyone should behave. On the best days I catch sight of what is actually going on, pry off the cap of my bottle of hubris, and pour myself a drink. I look out the window for awhile. I breathe. But as I careen frantically towards a desperately needed vacation something almost opposite seems to happen. Even hubris flies out the window. I keep my hand over the top of that bottle by sheer force of crankiness, rage, and exhaustion. The bottle agitates and explodes. I pick out the pieces of glass, get some rags, and clean up the mess. Then I go get another bottle.
No, I am not entirely sure exactly what this analogy is saying. Traditionally I would assume it must be saying something terribly clever. But with one day left til vacation I am pretty sure I am merely trying to keep all the words in their paragraphs.
As anyone who has ever met other people would know, hubris is traditionally the bottle cap over feelings of inadequacy, failure and doom. When one of my not very good co-workers declaims bitterly over one of my other not very good co-workers and over what should be done about it all, and they are full of fury, righteousness and confidence, it is easy to see the nature of hubris in all its pulsing clarity. When it is me being full of hubris, the mechanics of the whole thing can be hard to spot because that bottle cap requires lots and lots and lots of attention.
I am no stranger to the common ailment of walking around the library full to the brim with confidence over exactly how everything should be done and how everything could be improved and how everyone should behave. On the best days I catch sight of what is actually going on, pry off the cap of my bottle of hubris, and pour myself a drink. I look out the window for awhile. I breathe. But as I careen frantically towards a desperately needed vacation something almost opposite seems to happen. Even hubris flies out the window. I keep my hand over the top of that bottle by sheer force of crankiness, rage, and exhaustion. The bottle agitates and explodes. I pick out the pieces of glass, get some rags, and clean up the mess. Then I go get another bottle.
No, I am not entirely sure exactly what this analogy is saying. Traditionally I would assume it must be saying something terribly clever. But with one day left til vacation I am pretty sure I am merely trying to keep all the words in their paragraphs.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
11 posts to the future
I have been frenetically writing blog posts so that during my vacation, far from the Internet, my blog can still feed. My blog needs a blog post every day to live. I am not sure what would happen if I did not feed my blog. Would it weaken? Fall ill? Die? Or would it go feral and start roaming my neighborhood, etching top ten lists and pithy sayings in minute letters on the leaves of hostas, devouring lavender plants, and visiting the local library to heckle misbehaving patrons?
I don't know, but this is not the time to find out.
Currently I am eleven posts out ahead of today. This is about as far as I have ever written into the future on my blog. Not to be all boastful, but it is fortunate that my prose is a timeless jewel of eternal perfection. In a week and a half a lesser blogger's posts can become insensible, stale, even rotten. Mine (again, not to be boastful) will keep in a sealed bag for up to a month! If you wrap it carefully and place it in a freezer it will be safe to read all the way into the fall!
Usually when I get out far ahead on my blog I take a breather. I let things settle. This is because every post that has not yet gone live on my blog is sort of still alive in me. They are adjustable, reconsiderable, unfinished. Holding on to a dozen short essays that are still flopping around like fish that refuse to die is disconcerting. I lose sight of what I'm saying. I am spread thinly across too many kinds of writing; all wisdom and hubris and folly and anecdote and anger and love and just us, folks, pulling me apart at the seams. So usually I need to let it all settle out, refresh, focus.
But not now. This is a long vacation and I have more posts to take care of. As I push two or three blog posts a day into the future, as I try to get 15 or 16 blog posts out ahead, I enter an unexplored territory. Fortunately the feeling of weightlessness and confusion and anything goes is starting to appeal to me. How many times can I write about vacation plans, or moose? I don't know, but I don't think it's particularly dangerous. Indeed, there's probably only one real concern in all this, only one real peril:
As long as I don't start writing about writing my blog I should be okay. But don't worry, I don't think I'd ever let things get that out of hand.
I don't know, but this is not the time to find out.
Currently I am eleven posts out ahead of today. This is about as far as I have ever written into the future on my blog. Not to be all boastful, but it is fortunate that my prose is a timeless jewel of eternal perfection. In a week and a half a lesser blogger's posts can become insensible, stale, even rotten. Mine (again, not to be boastful) will keep in a sealed bag for up to a month! If you wrap it carefully and place it in a freezer it will be safe to read all the way into the fall!
Usually when I get out far ahead on my blog I take a breather. I let things settle. This is because every post that has not yet gone live on my blog is sort of still alive in me. They are adjustable, reconsiderable, unfinished. Holding on to a dozen short essays that are still flopping around like fish that refuse to die is disconcerting. I lose sight of what I'm saying. I am spread thinly across too many kinds of writing; all wisdom and hubris and folly and anecdote and anger and love and just us, folks, pulling me apart at the seams. So usually I need to let it all settle out, refresh, focus.
But not now. This is a long vacation and I have more posts to take care of. As I push two or three blog posts a day into the future, as I try to get 15 or 16 blog posts out ahead, I enter an unexplored territory. Fortunately the feeling of weightlessness and confusion and anything goes is starting to appeal to me. How many times can I write about vacation plans, or moose? I don't know, but I don't think it's particularly dangerous. Indeed, there's probably only one real concern in all this, only one real peril:
As long as I don't start writing about writing my blog I should be okay. But don't worry, I don't think I'd ever let things get that out of hand.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Moose announcements
My initial suspicion was that there are only two camps here:
1. The "Oh no, he's going to talk about moose again!" camp.
And
2. The "I can't take it! The tension is unbearable. Will he see a moose?" camp.
I soon realized, though, that there might be a few more camps, like:
3. The "What? What moose? What's he talking about?" camp.
And
4. The "I pop in on the blog occasionally and read back through the posts. I already know whether he saw a moose" camp.
To this "camp number four" I beg:
Don't tell me!!!!
I don't want to know if I saw a moose!
Hmm, though, on second thought, sure, if you can figure out a way to tell me, go ahead.
Time travel fascinates me.
And what about:
5. The "Hmm. Interesting that you mention moose. Did you know that there are white moose? They are super rare though." camp.
And of course:
6. The "I wasn't on board with this whole, weird moose diversion, but it's starting to grow on me." camp.
Now I am under no illusion that there aren't many, many more camps. Each of you is an entire camp unto yourself.
Nevertheless today's announcement is primarily directed to camp number two and camp number six. If you don't belong to either of those camps all I can do is urge you to get in the spirit of the thing. After that all I can do is hope for the best.
Today then is an announcement of an announcement. It's an excitement building announcement!
The "Did I see a moose?" reveal will take place on Sunday, August 10.
Just, you know, so you can prepare.
But, I'm going to see a moose, probably a white one, so don't worry too much.
1. The "Oh no, he's going to talk about moose again!" camp.
And
2. The "I can't take it! The tension is unbearable. Will he see a moose?" camp.
I soon realized, though, that there might be a few more camps, like:
3. The "What? What moose? What's he talking about?" camp.
And
4. The "I pop in on the blog occasionally and read back through the posts. I already know whether he saw a moose" camp.
To this "camp number four" I beg:
Don't tell me!!!!
I don't want to know if I saw a moose!
Hmm, though, on second thought, sure, if you can figure out a way to tell me, go ahead.
Time travel fascinates me.
And what about:
5. The "Hmm. Interesting that you mention moose. Did you know that there are white moose? They are super rare though." camp.
And of course:
6. The "I wasn't on board with this whole, weird moose diversion, but it's starting to grow on me." camp.
Now I am under no illusion that there aren't many, many more camps. Each of you is an entire camp unto yourself.
Nevertheless today's announcement is primarily directed to camp number two and camp number six. If you don't belong to either of those camps all I can do is urge you to get in the spirit of the thing. After that all I can do is hope for the best.
Today then is an announcement of an announcement. It's an excitement building announcement!
The "Did I see a moose?" reveal will take place on Sunday, August 10.
Just, you know, so you can prepare.
But, I'm going to see a moose, probably a white one, so don't worry too much.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Ready for vacation
There is a certain kind of terrible patron I have learned to take heart in.
These people are chaotic and antagonistic. They owe late fines all the time. They check out great quantities of items, usually AV materials. They return them mixed up, swapped in cases, empty. Library business is always going wrong for them. We didn't check in their items. We lost it. We didn't inform them. They called us about that. They shouldn't have to pay for a rental DVD that didn't work and none of them worked. They are exasperated that I am telling them about their 30 dollar late and lost fees. That was supposed to be cleared up by the woman they talked to. They would recognize her if they saw her. "That's her!" They say.
"She doesn't work here." I say patiently.
Why am I patient?
These people need merely be waited out. They are a self solving problem. We just hold steady to enough of our simple procedural rules, not even all of them, just hang on to a few basics and these people will dash themselves on the rocks of them. We will never hear from them again. Eventually some mistake will be too big. They will lose six DVDs. They will return 20 CDs a month late, and they will be gone forever.
But, you ask, aren't we a library? Don't we wish for everyone to be able to use it and benefit from it and come to it for all the wonderful things it has to give?
No.
These people are chaotic and antagonistic. They owe late fines all the time. They check out great quantities of items, usually AV materials. They return them mixed up, swapped in cases, empty. Library business is always going wrong for them. We didn't check in their items. We lost it. We didn't inform them. They called us about that. They shouldn't have to pay for a rental DVD that didn't work and none of them worked. They are exasperated that I am telling them about their 30 dollar late and lost fees. That was supposed to be cleared up by the woman they talked to. They would recognize her if they saw her. "That's her!" They say.
"She doesn't work here." I say patiently.
Why am I patient?
These people need merely be waited out. They are a self solving problem. We just hold steady to enough of our simple procedural rules, not even all of them, just hang on to a few basics and these people will dash themselves on the rocks of them. We will never hear from them again. Eventually some mistake will be too big. They will lose six DVDs. They will return 20 CDs a month late, and they will be gone forever.
But, you ask, aren't we a library? Don't we wish for everyone to be able to use it and benefit from it and come to it for all the wonderful things it has to give?
No.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Expiated
Sometimes when I write about a subject here, no matter how fiercely it had been churning inside me, when I write it, it's like it's released. Whether it's the aggravations of some awful co-worker, an obsession with fruit syrups, or some bit of nonsense rampaging through my brain like a gaggle of frisky coyotes, I give voice, and there is silence. Maybe all art is like a more or less polite exorcism. We invite some demon to possess us. We're lucky if it's a terrible one. This terribleness is usually indicated by causing a spinning head and a lot of throwing up. Then we begin the pleasurable and laborious exorcism, the setting down of the right words, the sentence testing, the exasperated starting all over again, the ceremonial 14th rereading. And then it's over. The demon is safely locked away in a poem, or a painting, a cartoon or a blog post.
But it's a tricky process. Sometimes the exorcism doesn't take. Sometimes there are still things to be said.
Those are the ones I keep coming back to. Sometimes they are too mighty to get at; my anti-quest for fame, the complexity of book jacket covers, my feelings towards the automated check in machine. Some are fathomless, like cats or birds, and some are trivial and require a lighter touch than I can sometimes find, like the passive aggressiveness of bicyclists, or people returning books in stacks as the pleasant machine voice is asking them nicely to return their books one at a time. But whatever it is I keep trying. The exorcisms never end. And if I can't get these demons out I don't mind too much. After they've been in there awhile they're my demons. Irritating, yes, but like bits of sand in an oyster, they are layered and transformed in me. Whenever I get one of those pearls out you know it. You may even comment.
"I liked your post today." You say when this happens.
"Thank you." I say. "I miss it already."
But it's a tricky process. Sometimes the exorcism doesn't take. Sometimes there are still things to be said.
Those are the ones I keep coming back to. Sometimes they are too mighty to get at; my anti-quest for fame, the complexity of book jacket covers, my feelings towards the automated check in machine. Some are fathomless, like cats or birds, and some are trivial and require a lighter touch than I can sometimes find, like the passive aggressiveness of bicyclists, or people returning books in stacks as the pleasant machine voice is asking them nicely to return their books one at a time. But whatever it is I keep trying. The exorcisms never end. And if I can't get these demons out I don't mind too much. After they've been in there awhile they're my demons. Irritating, yes, but like bits of sand in an oyster, they are layered and transformed in me. Whenever I get one of those pearls out you know it. You may even comment.
"I liked your post today." You say when this happens.
"Thank you." I say. "I miss it already."
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
More moose madness
While you read this I am probably watching majestic mooses cavort in their woodland homes. There are no mosquitoes flying about, but I can see a rainbow descending into the moody mists of Lake Superior. Did I mention that the moose are majestic? Oh, and what's this? A patch of wild blueberries? Why, these are the best blueberries I've ever tasted! What's that moose nosing around at? It looks like some kind of chest. Could it be? NO! Yes! It is the lost treasure of the Voyageurs! Sacre bleu! Why, there must be 200 dollars worth of beaver pelts in there!
Hmm? Oh, what's that. Yes, yes. I must have sort of wandered. I suppose when one is nearing vacation one's mind begins to drift. My mind is out drifting just off the shore of Lake Superior. It is partly cloudy, 74 degrees. The lake is calm as I drift on my kayak. Loons bob in the water and the water is so clear that I can see far into its fathomless depths. There is something enormous down there in that translucent emerald green. Is that a shipwreck or something? No, it's moving. I think it might be a fish? But my god, that's not just any fish! I believe that is the legendary Monster Lake Trout of Grand Marais. The beast must be 30 feet long if it's an inch. I must have some fishing tackle here somewhere! I do, but, what's this? A moose is sitting on my fishing tackle! How did a moose get in my kayak?
Oh, right. Yes. I am back. Where am I? What am I doing?
Blogging?
No, no, not blogging, that's not it. I am shelving.
But soon I will be on vacation. Or did it already happen?
Hmm? Oh, what's that. Yes, yes. I must have sort of wandered. I suppose when one is nearing vacation one's mind begins to drift. My mind is out drifting just off the shore of Lake Superior. It is partly cloudy, 74 degrees. The lake is calm as I drift on my kayak. Loons bob in the water and the water is so clear that I can see far into its fathomless depths. There is something enormous down there in that translucent emerald green. Is that a shipwreck or something? No, it's moving. I think it might be a fish? But my god, that's not just any fish! I believe that is the legendary Monster Lake Trout of Grand Marais. The beast must be 30 feet long if it's an inch. I must have some fishing tackle here somewhere! I do, but, what's this? A moose is sitting on my fishing tackle! How did a moose get in my kayak?
Oh, right. Yes. I am back. Where am I? What am I doing?
Blogging?
No, no, not blogging, that's not it. I am shelving.
But soon I will be on vacation. Or did it already happen?
Monday, July 28, 2014
Why I will see a moose
Reeling from a wilderness sea kayaking trip 14 years ago to see killer whales that mysteriously never showed up, I have been leery of pinning my hopes, in any trip, on seeing any particular sort of animal. And so, last year, when I was on a trip to the North Woods, I had no expectations.
But then I started dreaming of mooses.
Oh sure, at first it was all just an excuse to use the word "mooses" as often as possible on my blog, and that was sustaining for awhile. But then all that pretend peering into the shrubbery started to get to me. I started to wonder "Hey, what if I actually saw a moose?" And with that the fever started a slow burn.
Last year I did not see a moose, though I did suspect that the mooses were watching me from places of concealment. "That's okay, let them acclimate." I thought. With my return to the North Woods this year they will hopefully recognize me. Perhaps they will take me for a friend. And if you'll think about your own relationships with your friends I think you will note that, even if you are hiding from your friend in the shrubbery, eventually you are inclined to pop out, brush yourself off, and say "Hey, nice to see you."
I see no reason that a moose would differ on this account.
Am I setting myself up for disappointment?
Yes, absolutely. But I think that avoiding disappointment is dangerous, while setting oneself up for disappointment is brave, and magical, and quixotic, and very, very, very attractive to moose.
Wish me luck.
But then I started dreaming of mooses.
Oh sure, at first it was all just an excuse to use the word "mooses" as often as possible on my blog, and that was sustaining for awhile. But then all that pretend peering into the shrubbery started to get to me. I started to wonder "Hey, what if I actually saw a moose?" And with that the fever started a slow burn.
Last year I did not see a moose, though I did suspect that the mooses were watching me from places of concealment. "That's okay, let them acclimate." I thought. With my return to the North Woods this year they will hopefully recognize me. Perhaps they will take me for a friend. And if you'll think about your own relationships with your friends I think you will note that, even if you are hiding from your friend in the shrubbery, eventually you are inclined to pop out, brush yourself off, and say "Hey, nice to see you."
I see no reason that a moose would differ on this account.
Am I setting myself up for disappointment?
Yes, absolutely. But I think that avoiding disappointment is dangerous, while setting oneself up for disappointment is brave, and magical, and quixotic, and very, very, very attractive to moose.
Wish me luck.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Moose vacation
Around this time of year I go on vacation to try and see a moose. While my blog is never far from my heart, this moose watching (er, attempted moose watching) brings me far from any place to enter blog posts or interact with my blog in any way. So while I will no doubt write extensively about my moose tracking while I am on vacation, you have no way to read any of it until I can turn it all into blog posts after I come back.
I have four options in this situation.
1. I can shut down my blog for a week or two.
This option is unrealistic as the shock would destroy the Internet. My feelings are mixed about the Internet, but I am emotionally unable to deal with the responsibility for killing the Internet. Sure the Internet looks ferocious and monstrous now, but when I imagine its furry little limp body in my hands... no.
2. I could get my friend Grape to guest blog.
Last year he did three guest blog posts for my moose hunting time. He writes well! The posts were fun! And I got mentioned in them! This year I sent out feelers thinking he'd probably been waiting all year to get a crack at this again.
I don't think he'd been waiting all year to get a crack at this again.
3. I can run repeats.
While this would work for my more casual readers it would leave my most devoted readers out in the cold as they have already memorized all my past posts a la Fahrenheit 451.
4. In the days leading up to my vacation trip I can sleeplessly and feverishly try and write nine or ten extra blog posts to release like clockwork here during the time I am off on my moosing expeditions.
This one is probably the most problematic solution of them all. Overextended, the quality of my writing may suffer. I will run out of ideas. I may become snappish and slightly unenlightened. The muses will kick me down the stairs. Battered and exhausted, strung out and delusional I will start hallucinating moose.
Number four it is then.
I have four options in this situation.
1. I can shut down my blog for a week or two.
This option is unrealistic as the shock would destroy the Internet. My feelings are mixed about the Internet, but I am emotionally unable to deal with the responsibility for killing the Internet. Sure the Internet looks ferocious and monstrous now, but when I imagine its furry little limp body in my hands... no.
2. I could get my friend Grape to guest blog.
Last year he did three guest blog posts for my moose hunting time. He writes well! The posts were fun! And I got mentioned in them! This year I sent out feelers thinking he'd probably been waiting all year to get a crack at this again.
I don't think he'd been waiting all year to get a crack at this again.
3. I can run repeats.
While this would work for my more casual readers it would leave my most devoted readers out in the cold as they have already memorized all my past posts a la Fahrenheit 451.
4. In the days leading up to my vacation trip I can sleeplessly and feverishly try and write nine or ten extra blog posts to release like clockwork here during the time I am off on my moosing expeditions.
This one is probably the most problematic solution of them all. Overextended, the quality of my writing may suffer. I will run out of ideas. I may become snappish and slightly unenlightened. The muses will kick me down the stairs. Battered and exhausted, strung out and delusional I will start hallucinating moose.
Number four it is then.
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Why blog
Yesterday I accidentally voiced the question "Why must this blog be written?"
Then I accidentally mentioned something about how I might answer that question today.
Why why why do I say these things and then make rash promises on my blog?!
Perhaps I can answer that tomorrow. Yes! I will answer that tomorrow!
Today we are answering the question of why this blog must be written.
We feel that this blog itself is its own answer to the question of why it must be written. Furthermore we don't actually have an answer to why it must be written. Though even as you read this a circle is closed. It must be written because you have come to this exact spot in the universe. Everything that is happening in the universe at this moment is a kind of destiny.
Yes, that is a horrible answer too.
To be honest, I despaired of any proper answer for any of this until I remembered the blogger's holy grail, the most powerful explanatory force in the universe. Yes, I remembered the ten-item list.
Then I accidentally mentioned something about how I might answer that question today.
Why why why do I say these things and then make rash promises on my blog?!
Perhaps I can answer that tomorrow. Yes! I will answer that tomorrow!
Today we are answering the question of why this blog must be written.
We feel that this blog itself is its own answer to the question of why it must be written. Furthermore we don't actually have an answer to why it must be written. Though even as you read this a circle is closed. It must be written because you have come to this exact spot in the universe. Everything that is happening in the universe at this moment is a kind of destiny.
Yes, that is a horrible answer too.
To be honest, I despaired of any proper answer for any of this until I remembered the blogger's holy grail, the most powerful explanatory force in the universe. Yes, I remembered the ten-item list.
Why Must This Blog Be Written
1. I know that one is not supposed to scratch an itch, but just you try it!
2. Without this blog the library I work at would seem to consist of a random series of incidents rather than a cohesive narrative building to a brilliant, world saving conclusion.
3. This small blog, read by just a few dozen people, is all that prevents the Internet from collapsing in on itself and becoming a black hole of knowledge and wisdom, sucking everything in the world down into its absolute darkness of overwhelming, runaway gravity.
4. I would lose the one stylish reason I have for drinking coffee.
5. All my paying attention would devolve into gawking.
6. I am under a geas. Unfortunately the laws of the geas prevent me from explaining the specific nature of this geas. I'm not sure then if this counts as a legitimate explanation.
7. Oh, they'd like it plenty if I didn't write this blog!
8. Yes, fire burns, but it also illuminates. Which is my way of saying I am still just a bit afraid of the dark.
9. I took a holy vow to write the mega blog post of enlightenment. Each post, even this one, is part of my quest. One day I will write that post.
10. I sort of hate to say it, but if you don't know by now you never will.
7. Oh, they'd like it plenty if I didn't write this blog!
8. Yes, fire burns, but it also illuminates. Which is my way of saying I am still just a bit afraid of the dark.
9. I took a holy vow to write the mega blog post of enlightenment. Each post, even this one, is part of my quest. One day I will write that post.
10. I sort of hate to say it, but if you don't know by now you never will.
Friday, July 25, 2014
7 reasons there is no blog post here
Sometimes a blogger gets a little blue. External impediments, lack of confidence, and weariness all stand in the bloggers way and nothing seems worth writing. But no matter the trials of life, blogging, imagination, and psychology, the blog must go on.
Why must the blog go on?
Ah, now there's a blog post for you!
If only I felt like writing it.
Maybe tomorrow. Today we are writing the seven reasons why I can't write a blog post today!
Yes, I know this may be disappointing for you. I can only hope that this explanatory list could somehow stand in lieu of a blog post. But no, I don't know how it could.
Seven Reasons I Cannot Write a Blog Post Today
1. I do not have enough hubris. I think I left it as a bookmark in the Terry Pratchett book I am reading at home.
2. My left pinkie feels a bit crampy when I type. Well, more like it might cramp if I exposed it to vigorous typing.
3. Everyone is mysteriously behaving themselves at the library today.
4. Evil portents. Two nights ago I dreamed I saw a two-headed moose. Today, walking to work, the lavender flowers were all closed up and unscented. Kafka, the library cat hissed at me. I hear someone moaning and dragging chains in the ceiling ducts above me. Great big vultures sit on every light post of our parking lot, peering into the library windows. I keep seeing blood on my hands out of the corner of my eye.
5.I have too much to say and only silence can carry the weight of such fecundity.
6. The time is not yet ripe to reveal my nefarious plans.
7. I could write something, but you deserve more than something.
Why must the blog go on?
Ah, now there's a blog post for you!
If only I felt like writing it.
Maybe tomorrow. Today we are writing the seven reasons why I can't write a blog post today!
Yes, I know this may be disappointing for you. I can only hope that this explanatory list could somehow stand in lieu of a blog post. But no, I don't know how it could.
Seven Reasons I Cannot Write a Blog Post Today
1. I do not have enough hubris. I think I left it as a bookmark in the Terry Pratchett book I am reading at home.
2. My left pinkie feels a bit crampy when I type. Well, more like it might cramp if I exposed it to vigorous typing.
3. Everyone is mysteriously behaving themselves at the library today.
4. Evil portents. Two nights ago I dreamed I saw a two-headed moose. Today, walking to work, the lavender flowers were all closed up and unscented. Kafka, the library cat hissed at me. I hear someone moaning and dragging chains in the ceiling ducts above me. Great big vultures sit on every light post of our parking lot, peering into the library windows. I keep seeing blood on my hands out of the corner of my eye.
5.I have too much to say and only silence can carry the weight of such fecundity.
6. The time is not yet ripe to reveal my nefarious plans.
7. I could write something, but you deserve more than something.
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