Author Archives: Dave

Author, blogger, thinker, developer, and all-around digital creative. Applied theatre professional. Mac enthusiast. Coffee fanatic.

Dormant

I did something uncharacteristic just after Christmas. I spent gift money on slippers.

You know, slippers that one wears around the house. I’ve always sort of held the opinion that real men didn’t use them, but apparently I’ve been in error all these years. So, I finally gave in to Karen’s promptings, and ordered a pair that turned out to be very warm and comfortable. I almost find myself looking forward to coming home and getting comfortable in them, staying in from the cold weather and enjoying a fire and a good book.

“Who’s writing this, and what have you done with Dave?” you might ask. And, your question is well-founded. I assure you, though, I’m in as sound a mind as I’ve ever been since starting this blog (albeit that’s questionable at best). And read on, because this is going to get stranger.

Shortly after returning from Christmas travels, I found myself in the local Lowe’s searching for a new snow shovel. Now, ever since leaving home, I’ve always lived in apartments, so there’s not a great deal of home improvement I find myself in need of. Aside from the occasional minor project, I typically only see the insides of these establishments when I’m working on set construction or some other stage-related venture. I still succumb to the male impulse of browsing through this-and-that and thinking about what I could get into while I’m there, however, and as I  worked my way through the “seasonal” section looking for my shovel, I found myself actually enjoying the fact that it was winter.

Go ahead. Go back and re-read the sentence. Your eyes are fine. I actually wrote that.

Anyone who’s read this blog for longer than a year or so as been exposed to the less-than-flattering terms I use to describe this season which I have tolerated at best and barely survived at worst through my life. Phrases like “making it through the cold is hell” and “if I never see snow again I’ll die happy” have long permeated my conversations through the years. And while it is true that I physiologically continue to tolerate the cold poorly, I’ve come to a psychological…and perhaps even a spiritual…epiphany about the season of which we are in the middle.

The epiphany began with my realization that snow in the South East of the U.S. is seen as an unscheduled chance to decompress and slow down from the daily rush of life. Then, a friend recently emailed Karen a reflection on the seasons. Her thought was basically that winter is necessary, because it is a period of dormancy that permits rest and better growth in the Spring. The spiritual metaphor here is obvious…winter is perfect for enjoying a fire and a good book because it affords us the opportunity to do exactly what snow forces to happen in the South East: to move more slowly, to sometimes even stop altogether for a period of time to re-charge. Call it dormancy, call it rest, call it a Sabbath…whatever your terminology or perspective, it is something that I’m realizing is necessary, yet sorely lacking for us.

One of the things that has always frustrated me the most about winter is the fact that it is more difficult and time consuming to accomplish the things I feel I need to complete during my day. What if, however, I accepted winter as the period of dormancy it may be intended for, and permitted myself to slow down and be less productive for a month or two? Or to be productive in different ways? Who knows? I might just find myself enjoying the season I’ve always claimed to have no use for.

Or, at least to tolerate it more effectively.

You realize I may have to deny writing this later…right?

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A Boy in a Bubble

Let me paint a story about a boy in a bubble.

The boy in said bubble was safe from everything. Seriously. Everything. The bubble kept everything out that might harm him, be it germs or diseases or big bad people with weapons. Pedestrians with bad attitudes and family with an all-around irritable disposition: all out. Nothing can touch him. The boy is safe. Completely, totally, even irrevocably, safe.

His bubble is clear…that is, everyone can see through his bubble. The boy is on display. Anyone who passes him can see completely through his bubble, and thus his privacy no longer exists. Everything he does is subject to the scrutiny of people he does not know at times he does not know and in ways he does not know. He has given them permission to do so, however. Because he must be safe.

The bubble doesn’t travel well. You see, its actually quite difficult to use any form of public transportation and maintain the safety of the bubble. Because, what the boy realized is that the bubble isn’t quite enough. He had to permit those who govern him to prevent anyone that they suspect may have ill intent from getting anywhere close to the bubble, because a handful have tried, and even gotten too close. Who knows? The bubble may prove to have a flaw, and that would mean that the boy isn’t safe. The boy must feel safe. Therefore, everyone else must be expected to surrender their privacy and rights in order to maintain the boy’s safety. That’s only reasonable. He surrendered himself. They must do the same.

The boy’s life has been seriously curtailed. He doesn’t interact with other human beings much, at least not in any actual, interpersonal sense. The important thing is that the boy himself cannot be touched.

The boy is willing to sacrifice anything for the illusion of his own safety and security. He is so frightened that the perfect lifestyle that he has worked so diligently to obtain might be compromised, that he will give up whatever those who protect him deem necessary in order to preserve that. His material possessions are much more important than the interaction and pleasure and sanity that are sacrificed in order to obtain the security he feels that he has. Therefore, feeling secure has become paramount. The boy must feel secure.

Don’t tell the boy, but it is actually impossible to be completely safe. It is impossible because, tragically, there will always be those who do not value human life and are intent on doing others harm. Catching them all is impossible unless everyone is forbidden to do nearly everything, which, ironically, makes a high level of safety an amazingly lifeless place to exist. However, the boy is so desperate to feel safe, to be surrounded by the illusion of security, that he is constantly forcing those who are in power to take more steps and write new scenes in the genre of security theatre, so that his emotional needs are met by an appearance of something that is false. His safety is portrayed by a facade. That is acceptable. After all, the boy lives in a culture of appearance management.

The boy has been in his bubble for so long that he has forgotten things that have been said about this subject previously.

Do you know anyone like that?

Or am I just telling a story?

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If You Can Read This…

Its been a while since I’ve thought about this, at least in any sort of coherently recordable form, but yesterday I caught this article. Its worth your time to read, and is essentially arguing that technology, specifically the Internet, is actually increasing the number of people who read, at least according to a University of San Diego study. Their logic, it seems, is that words remain the dominant medium by which information is communicated through websites. Thus, the Internet is not only not doing any harm, but is, in fact, doing good toward increasing literacy.

The issue with studies like this one is that they draw broad conclusions from a very focused social observation. The argument certainly can be made that we engage in the written word more frequently than we have in the past if we spend any time at all online (which you obviously do if you’re reading this), even if its only scanning Facebook stories and Twitter updates from our friends. Many of us take the time to digest CNN or NPR or New York Times articles by way of their websites, which are still more text-based than video-based. So, by strictest definition of the term, yes…society is reading more.

My question is, though…how are we reading?

Back in the summer of 2008, The Atlantic ran a story by Nicholas Carr that gained quite a bit of traction: “Is Google Making Us Stupid?” The thrust of Carr’s argument is that the Internet is changing the way in which our brain functions during the process of reading, that we become more accustomed to reading small chunks of information broken up by tangential hyperlinks and being packaged in easily digestible formats and lengths. Thus, sitting down with, say, Tolstoy, Tolkien, Salinger or Updike, becomes more of a chore than it once was, because the length and intensity of attention required to really engage a work of literature is much more than we are used to.

I’ve experienced this as well. The bulk of the information I consume during the average day comes by way of the Internet. I read news stories in the same “inverted pyramid style” in which they are written; that is, something really has to fascinate me to get me to turn to the second full page.  More frequently than that, I  scan headlines and two-line synopses of stories in my RSS reader instead. When the blogs I follow have lengthy posts, I intentionally have to put them off until later, to make certain I give them the attention that they deserve. Even then, however, engaging a blog post for 5 minutes is significantly different than engaging a novel for two hours. I find myself agreeing with Carr at some level: it is more difficult for me to “curl up with a good book” for more than an hour or two.

The study that Wired mentions is settling for quantity over quality. Taking in more words during the course of the average day isn’t the same as actually spending time with those words, loving the language, acquainting oneself with the author and characters. As reading is taught in our public education system as a means to an end, a technical process to facilitate the hard sciences instead of an appreciation of eloquent language, so has our definition of “reading” become: utilitarian instead of something having value in itself.

Obviously, I’m not against technology. I found the Wired article by way of someone I follow on Twitter, ironically enough. I just feel that its important to not confuse the tools we use for daily communication with the validity of the language(s) we use them to facilitate. In a recent Facebook conversation, a friend referred to Twitter as a “literature sniper.”  Other friends have referred to it as the height of narcissism.  That might be a bit harsh, but it could also be true if the only reason we use our language is for basic communication, at the expense of enjoying and loving and exploring our humanity, of which our language is a part.

Free Standing

Here’s something you wouldn’t believe: When I was young, I was narcissitic.

No, no, its true. To call me self-absorbed wouldn’t have been giving my high-school identity crisis nearly enough credit. I was a musician. I was an actor. I dressed sharp and hung out with the preppy, popular group (if it makes your brain hurt to try to understand how I reconciled those things, don’t worry…it does mine, as well).

Those days are long gone, and at a wise and proven 35 years of age, I’ve seen the error of my ways. For example, the time when I voluntarily “dressed up” has been cast by the wayside. I’ve left more serious symptoms of self-absorption behind, as well. At that age, I was far too focused on being civilized and engaging in “higher,” creative, and academic sorts of things to be bothered with household chores. I helped out only with much groaning and attitude, and never enjoyed it. Growing up in a rural area brought its share of outdoor, agricultural sorts of chores, all of which I loathed. I promised myself and loudly declared to all others that I would not live in this “Farmer Joe” lifestyle in adulthood, because the convenience and fast-paced lifestyle of the city called my name.

To be honest, I have no idea what a farming lifestyle would entail, because that certainly was not what I grew up experiencing. I did keep my promise to be an urbanite in adulthood…civilization for me is defined by how many Starbucks I can drive to in 5 minutes or less. What I have not carried over…or, at least, what I am beginning to lose…is my self-absorption.

This leads me to a sort of active repentance when Karen and I visit my parents. My father now walks with a cane due to a old back injury and other medical issues. I find myself anxious to help him with anything that might require assistance around the house when we visit. Carrying a piece of outdoor furniture? No problem. Take out the trash and bring in the paper? I’m all over it. Things that are even an inconvenience for me in our own home are not when visiting my parents. Each visit brings a new bout of zealous penance.

This Christmas was marked by a nasty little windstorm that did significant damage to the local infrastructure and took the power with it immediately after Christmas dinner. Power wasn’t restored for several hours. This isn’t entirely uncommon in the snowy, rural North East, and so my parents and their neighbors come prepared. It was time to fire up “the generator.”

For the uninitiated, “the generator” is essentially a gasoline powered engine that sits in the gardenhouse, and, when running, sends electricity through a line into the home, which is then used to power critical appliances (yes, I consider a coffee pot critical), lighting, and so on for the duration of a power outage. That’s a bit of a challenge for my father to manage, and I was anxious to stop grumbling about the outage and be a part of the solution. Even therein, however, lay things that my father stubbornly steadfastly pursued on his own, occasionally worsening his health for the weekend, but arguing with me over my offers of assistance. Eventually, I will just back down. I won’t let this turn into a real dispute.

I understand fully my father’s desire to hold onto his independence. I do. I also recognize, however, that none of us are capable of doing everything without requiring assistance with something. Life just isn’t a solo sport. In looking at this (occasionally humorous) dynamic over our Christmas weekend together, however, I’ve also realized that there are times when we need to permit others to help us even when we don’t need it, because they need to help us. I needed to be forced to help as a child, even when my father was more than capable of doing everything himself (he is, after all, Superman…didn’t you know?), because I needed to learn that responsibility. I did learn it in the end, but I wouldn’t be constantly overcoming my feelings of guilt now had I done so then.

Perhaps I will be able to make progress toward shedding some of the rugged independence of our Western culture that can, at times, be damaging to us in the end…especially when I can see that voluntarily doing so will be of assistance to another human being. In seeing what I’ve seen this weekend, I’m certainly going to try to at least strike a balance.

Hopefully without any further power outages in the process.

Here’s hoping your Christmas was blessed.

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