U2 on Grace and Karma

I haven't really kept up on my music collection over the years; I'm still several albums behind on such greats as Vigilantes of Love, Over the Rhine and U2. But I love, love love, reading an interview with Bono (lead singer for U2). He preaches, he meddles, but man, he gets the point across. Go read this. All of it. Would that we could all articulate it so clearly.

Well, what would you do with it?

Several years ago, I was given a project at work: managing the artwork and printing for a huge, sprawling series of archaeological reports. This being a well-funded expedition, the reports were to be in color. This, and other factors dictated that we have it printed overseas.

I got to design the dustjacket. Now, each printer and bindery has their own way of doing things; one uses thicker cardboard here, one uses a different kind of paper there, and it's no good trying to guess at what the exact dimensions will be. So I wrote a note asking for the dimensions of the soon-to-be book. What I expected was a dozen numbers, or perhaps an Excel worksheet; what I got, express-mailed from Singapore a few days later, was... a book.

724 pages, using the exact paper they'd use for the final product. And every one of them was blank.

They included a sample stamping on the cover that I found amusing. Sure, who wouldn't want a book like this?

So what would you do with it?

It served its initial purpose quite nicely, and then sat on the corner of my desk for several years. I knew what I wanted to do with it. And so, finally, after all this time, I've gotten started: I'm going to practice my chops at drawing in pen and ink. I'm going to fill it up, and work on my skills. So what if it takes me ten years....?

The first drawing. I've had this walnut shell sitting in a little basket, just waiting to be drawn.

One page down, 723 to go.

Review: The Magicians by Lev Grossman

I said to a guy, “Tell me, what is it about cocaine that makes it so wonderful?” And the guy said, “Well, it intensifies your personality.” And I said, “Yes, but what if you’re an asshole?” —Bill Cosby

Quentin Coldwater is a talented, bright kid with vast opportunities. He's just not happy about it. Setting out for an ivy-league college interview, he is immersed in magical intrigue and — perhaps more important to Quentin — a glimpse at a manuscript for a previously-unknown sequel to a magical fantasy series about a group of children that go off to the magical land of Fillory. On chasing down this blowing manuscript, he finds himself just in time to take the entrance exam for Brakebills, a magical university. A magical education later, Quentin Coldwater is a talented, bright kid with vast opportunities. He's just not happy about it.

So, what would you do with a magical education, and a virtually limitless slush fund for freshly-minted magicians? Party 'til you drop, apparently. In the midst of the debauchery, a classmate shows up with intriguing news: There really is a Fillory, and he's found a way to get there. So they go. Not all of them return. In the end, Quentin Coldwater is a talented, bright adult with vast opportunities. He's just not happy about it.

Make no mistake: Grossman can write. And, for the first third of the book, that fools you into thinking it's worth reading. The novelty of the approach and the sheer inventiveness throughout lets you excuse some excesses in the characters, lets you call the details "gritty" and refreshing.

Now, I allow a bit more leeway than some do as to what's acceptable to read. I enjoy seeing truth through the eyes of others, and I'm willing to put up with a few things to see that. Some people would be offended at the mere mention of magic. Some people would hurl the book away from themselves should any character take a drink, use foul language, or look at each other in lust. Sinners sin. That's what they do. No need to be surprised by it.

That said, the excesses start piling on heavier and heavier. Time is marked in bottles, and by the midpoint of the book, the characters are pretty much engaged in outright debauchery. I plowed on past these points, thinking "it can't get worse..." and pretty much being wrong, every time. By the end of the book, it's downright gory. I don't mind a little dirt in a good story, but really, must one wallow in it?

It's tempting, at least initially, to compare elements of this story to other greats in the genre. Brakebills = Hogwarts, Fillory = Narnia, and so on. Grossman evidently didn't want to continue any of those traditions for their own sake; fans of Narnia in particular are going to feel like he sullied the tale for no good reason. "Narnia without Aslan" isn't a new literary concept, but the likes of Phillip Pullman attack it directly; in The Magicians, it's more negligent homicide than murder one.

The most pervasive theme throughout the book, however, isn't in the book: it's the intense desire, instilled in the reader, to reach into the pages and slap Quentin & Co. upside the head. Part of the discomfort for me was in identifying with the main character, and realizing that I would have wanted to do the same thing in that situation. Every bad decision that could be made, generally is.

At the end of it all, there are quite a number of things one can take away from the book: Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely. Life without purpose is pretty depressing. No amount of talent makes up for being a jerk. Narnia without Aslan is no better than any other place. Escapist fantasy this isn't — quite the opposite. I'm not sorry I visited this particular world, but I'm not going to be making a return trip.

The Children's Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

First day of school

See? I told you I was behind...

Fiona is off to first grade, and Aiden is off to preschool for the first time.

The traditional picture on the front porch, each in their favorite outfits.

Both schools are in easy walking distance.

I'm amazed that they bothered to put any vegetation in front of this sign before the first day. I assure you, we weren't the only people telling this particular story with cameras.

At the classroom door, it was very easy to see the difference between Fiona's and Aiden's personalities. Fiona got to the doorway, and froze:

Fiona's hesitation at the door was just long enough to capture this perfectly.

Then, she immediately started seeking structure: "Where's my desk? Where do I put my lunch? Where do I put my backpack? Where...." ...is a high, semi-panicky voice.

Mrs. Burgher was unfazed.

As we left, she was immersing herself in the experience as fast as she could.

Then, it was time to walk the two blocks to Aiden's preschool.

And then there were three. Plus Daddy's shadow.

We got to Aiden's classroom, and he walked right in. Right past the teacher. Right to the toys. Adjustment? What's there to adjust to?

Oh, this looks like fun...

Tomorrow, I'll be posting photos from their high school graduations. Hyperbole, yes, but then, consider: Fiona is seven. Somewhere between a third and a half of her time in our nest is already gone. Better enjoy it while it lasts!

Welcome back

Yes, I know, it's been nearly a month. You can blame Facebook, blame my job, blame my kids, blame my wife, any number of things. Mostly, it boils down to not feeling like I had the free time to write. But tonight, Deborah is out having a "girls' night out," and the kids are in bed (if not necessarily sleeping...) so I'll see what i can do to correct that.

More than we'll ever need

We did a new thing this year: we adopted some apple trees from a community apple orchard. We paid a small fee (about 20 apples' worth, if you're buying them at the store), did some pruning, and stepped back to let rain and shine do their thing.

In early Fall, we got the call that our apples were ready.

These are organic apples — not the waxed-up, pesticide-soaked supermodels that you'd find at the grocery store. Your first reaction might be that they weren't any good... but oh, they were, they were.

Deborah asked for a basket for her birthday, spcifically for harvesting things.

The kids enthusiastically picked the low-hanging fruit...

...while Risanna munched.

Pretty soon, the allure of a climbable tree plus the lack of low-hanging fruit led to the logical solution.

I lost count at 360 apples. The Zipper proved very handy, as not only could we move things around, but it could drive on the grass, and provided a handy place to climb on to get upper branches.

The apples needed to be cleaned up, but looked great with a little washing...

Beautiful apples.

They did need to be cut up to get the worm holes out. For all the apples we had, this took days.

After several hours of cooking and a trip trough a food mill, we ended up with more than 20 quarts of really good applesauce.

Grief on the Island

I used to pass by it every morning on my way to work. A hammock, out at the end of the point. It was always up, summer, winter, spring and fall. A really lovely place to sit and watch a sunset, snuggle up. I never climbed into it myself (it's not mine, after all!) but I always appreciated the brilliance of the location and the view.

It's gone now.

Very late last night, the whole end of the Island was swarming with every kind of emergency vehicle, trying to extricate the two college students that had been laying in the hammock when the dead tree the hammock was connected to toppled over on top of them. The girl, Mallori Kastner, was pronounced dead at the scene. The guy, Jeremy Mohr, is apparently paralyzed from the neck down.

The hammock is gone. There's a growing pile of flowers there. The body of the tree is still there, half-rolled off into the water. And there are people, always people. I came across a group that I'm fairly certain included the girl's parents and siblings this afternoon, the mother talking about her daughter's hopes and dreams. I stayed out of the way.

What was I supposed to do?

It's so strange to be in the midst of grief. I came around the point yet again this evening, to find a silver minivan blocking the road, illuminating the wreath and flowers left there in the headlights. They quickly reversed and drove on, and I cursed myself for driving them off. I'd have gladly backed up and taken the other road, to let them sit and look. Rolling up next to them at the stoplight, I zipped down my window and apologized for running them off. They waved it off, but I could see in their eyes that they had other things on their minds. Sorry, silver-minivan-people-from-Illinois. I should let you grieve. My usual route wasn't that important.

What do you do when grief is so close by, but has nothing to do with you? My only connection is that I drive by that hammock every day, that I live just down the block, that I think I saw them snuggling under that tree over there, a few weeks ago, that I used to go to the same college... it's not a connection, really; who am I to intrude on their grief?

So why does it feel wrong to step back and do nothing?