My presence here in Arkansas seems an oddity to many. Though it has been explored countless times already in this medium, I always seem to find myself returning to it. I would venture to guess that it stems from the confusion of life. It's natural to reach out for something known in times of unknown, like a favorite pub or a particular bench in the park. Your life isn't exactly centered around it but you feel centered while you're there.
When I left France I jumped from what had become home back to what was once home. It is perhaps confusing and a bit complicated to phrase it thus but I felt adrift. As such I did derive a sense of comfort out of my familiar surroundings. After Clint's death and my separation from M. it was perhaps the best thing for me. Admittedly though there seemed to be an undercurrent of doubt, one that perhaps mentally tagged on "for now" to my response when asked if I was "back." I'm not sure why, but even after being off in the world, I seemed to associate a slight sense of failure with being back home. It is absurd, I know.
The reaction to my "return" depends largely on the person I might be talking to. There seems to be a duality of opinion here, one that is undoubtedly the case in many towns across America. There are those that see the place as the center of something larger, a destination of perfection. Lying opposite to this are those that only know the place by a negative moniker that keeps the "Fort" but replaces the "Smith" with something my sister referred to as the "S word" when we were younger. Both camps express disbelief at my return. For the former my return is natural but they can't believe that I took so long to come to my senses.
While many see the town as a pleasant comfort, the other half seems to view the town as a mother's thumb--something that binds and chafes, something to escape. With this set there is usually a touch of envy at my fortune, envy that I had gotten out. Theirs is an incredulous disbelief that I would even contemplate a return.
So here I am, ironically stuck between the two halves. Squarely under that comfortingly oppressive thumb, I am once again seeking answers to questions that can't really be answered, only lived.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The Tragedy of Circumstance
Each time I begin a relationship it always seems there will never be an end. Despite all contrary evidence that I've experienced, I always get lost in the beauty of love and coupling in its early stages.
It's only later that the cracks begin to show--your defense of certain glaring incompatibilities weakens, you cease to ignore certain characteristics. The time frame for this negative evolution always depends on those involved (I seem to be quite adept at ignoring reality in a multitude of situations). Given the nature of relationships it would be easy for one to think that the innocence and exciting unknowns of new relationships were the peak. It would be easy to think that it simply doesn't get much better. But it is only after those early bursts of emotion have passed that the nature of a love is revealed and allowed room to truly grow.
Thus the tragedy isn't that a relationship fails to grow but that it isn't allowed the room to grow. Whether it was Romeo or Tristan, Beatrice or Ilsa--without the right circumstances love is circumvented. It can never truly take flight, wings can never be completely formed.
So it is once again that circumstance thwarts a short but brilliant flame in my life. In the billowing remnants of that flame I am left only with memories of moments shared and a longing to replace the emptiness...I've never been good at being alone.
It's only later that the cracks begin to show--your defense of certain glaring incompatibilities weakens, you cease to ignore certain characteristics. The time frame for this negative evolution always depends on those involved (I seem to be quite adept at ignoring reality in a multitude of situations). Given the nature of relationships it would be easy for one to think that the innocence and exciting unknowns of new relationships were the peak. It would be easy to think that it simply doesn't get much better. But it is only after those early bursts of emotion have passed that the nature of a love is revealed and allowed room to truly grow.
Thus the tragedy isn't that a relationship fails to grow but that it isn't allowed the room to grow. Whether it was Romeo or Tristan, Beatrice or Ilsa--without the right circumstances love is circumvented. It can never truly take flight, wings can never be completely formed.
So it is once again that circumstance thwarts a short but brilliant flame in my life. In the billowing remnants of that flame I am left only with memories of moments shared and a longing to replace the emptiness...I've never been good at being alone.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The North Side of Despair
Another year has come and gone for the boys in Cubbie blue. It has proved hard to admit. Now that I'm almost a full week removed from their third loss to the Dodgers I've accepted the fact that it is over, really and truly over.
This day and age doesn't really seem as suited for baseball as it is other sports. Thus there are countless people 35 and under who just don't "get" baseball. Most of my friends are more in tune with the NBA and the NFL than they are the dynamics of the MLB. There are too many games, not enough action, any number of excuses are spit out as reasons behind their dislike of the game.
Most of these reasons I can live with. Everyone has different tastes. I do, however, find it ironic when friends who "love" soccer list game pace or "lack of action" as a reason for their inability to derive pleasure from watching baseball. It escapes me how one can truly appreciate the tactical vagaries of soccer but not baseball. Obviously in many circles it's "hip" for one to "love" soccer but I think it's as much about personality as it is the changing face of the world.
"It's no wonder some people find the game dull, especially in an age of Sports Center and instant gratification. A lot of baseball's appeal is in the Scheherazadian nature of the game--the narrative develops slowly. Clock drive football compresses and distills, while baseball invites discursive rumination. It's an archaic style that attracts a different fan." -Phillip Martin, 9-21-08 Arkansas Democrat-Gazette
Since that compression is missing from baseball there is more buildup. Once that aspiration is deflated at season's end, it stings. As a Cubs fan you become somewhat immune to the many pitfalls and let downs within a season. You're calloused and accustomed to that sting of defeat. It's when you ease your inner guard and allow the light of hope to burn within you that you leave yourself vulnerable as a Cubs fan. My own light clicked on early this year and continued to flicker the entire season. Even after the Cubs dropped the first two in Chicago, deep inside me a miraculous curse breaking ember was smoldering.
It wasn't to be. Once again, in a miraculous fashion, the season ended for the Cubs. It's easy to lament one's circumstances but excoriating one's fate is of no use. Instead we dry our eyes and cast our gaze ahead to next year--to find new hope in a new spring. We, as Cub fans, live in the quiet hopes of tomorrow and the joyous possibilities it holds.
This day and age doesn't really seem as suited for baseball as it is other sports. Thus there are countless people 35 and under who just don't "get" baseball. Most of my friends are more in tune with the NBA and the NFL than they are the dynamics of the MLB. There are too many games, not enough action, any number of excuses are spit out as reasons behind their dislike of the game.
Most of these reasons I can live with. Everyone has different tastes. I do, however, find it ironic when friends who "love" soccer list game pace or "lack of action" as a reason for their inability to derive pleasure from watching baseball. It escapes me how one can truly appreciate the tactical vagaries of soccer but not baseball. Obviously in many circles it's "hip" for one to "love" soccer but I think it's as much about personality as it is the changing face of the world.
"It's no wonder some people find the game dull, especially in an age of Sports Center and instant gratification. A lot of baseball's appeal is in the Scheherazadian nature of the game--the narrative develops slowly. Clock drive football compresses and distills, while baseball invites discursive rumination. It's an archaic style that attracts a different fan." -Phillip Martin, 9-21-08 Arkansas Democrat-Gazette
Since that compression is missing from baseball there is more buildup. Once that aspiration is deflated at season's end, it stings. As a Cubs fan you become somewhat immune to the many pitfalls and let downs within a season. You're calloused and accustomed to that sting of defeat. It's when you ease your inner guard and allow the light of hope to burn within you that you leave yourself vulnerable as a Cubs fan. My own light clicked on early this year and continued to flicker the entire season. Even after the Cubs dropped the first two in Chicago, deep inside me a miraculous curse breaking ember was smoldering.
It wasn't to be. Once again, in a miraculous fashion, the season ended for the Cubs. It's easy to lament one's circumstances but excoriating one's fate is of no use. Instead we dry our eyes and cast our gaze ahead to next year--to find new hope in a new spring. We, as Cub fans, live in the quiet hopes of tomorrow and the joyous possibilities it holds.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Wishes and Wants
For some reason I've always had a predilection for literature from the early 20th century. Most noticeably this preference is for works that take place in the interwar years from 1920-1940. I'm not so sure I can truly put my finger on the reason why. It seems that there is hardly ever a direct causal relationship between reason and preference. There are vaguely descriptive reasons I can give--the level of decadence that seemed to pervade life, the manners, the suppressed simplicity of the worldview. I think, in truth, it perversely seems almost idyllic in my mind. An era seemingly caught between modernity and the Victorian era, the exact point of society before we spilled over into the chaos of "modernity."
With my fear of planes I suppose I've always felt as if I was born in the wrong era, that I was more suited for the leisurely travel norms of that time. Perhaps I'm kidding myself to entertain such notions but I've raced through Forster, Maugham, Greene, and Waugh and continually feel drawn to their world.
Naturally it was not without a sense of irony that I realized the other day that, in a way, I've been living in a new manifestation of that time period. Perhaps this realization should have occurred to me already with the gloom and doom of another depression splashed across the news each day (Unfortunately I tend to be tragically oblivious. For as observant as I feel I can be, this streak of blindness can be somewhat surprising).
It can be quite easy to find parallels between historical eras if one sets out to do so. I imagine it's almost as easy as finding behavioral or moral justifications in the bible. Everything is found for those who care to undertake the search. For my own comparison it's easy to picture the fracturing of a societal naivete, a la the WWI, in the events of 9/11, the roaring 20s in the freewheeling banking practices of the early 2000s, and our own recession as the depression. What is left but a war to bookend the period?
Obviously the time periods of these "parallel" events don't mesh. The later events occur compressed--a naivete that took four years to crack was shattered in only a day. As we were drowning in the forgetfulness of prosperity the world continued to move on around us.
My good friend in California, Matt, made a very valid point during our discussion of the dualities between responsibility and happiness. It serves very nicely has an ending point for this particular post. Matt compared the current state of much of the financial sector with that of our peers. I'm taking the liberty to quote him directly (courtesy of the wondrous gmail)--
"A lot of our generation has been blessed with many great opportunities and not often have we seen the possible negative consequences of the risks we have taken. So we keep on taking the risks, keep on pushing it."
If there is a better analogy that describes the majority of young American adults and their personal struggles between "reality" and the easy almost hedonistic lifestyle they had grown accustomed to, I have yet to see it. Matt's assessment of the situation nails the crux of the issue, for our own age or for the 1920s. In both eras we became tangled up in the illusion of prosperity...so fooled by the hopeful smokescreen of flourishing affluence that we lost sight of reality. We are now stuck with the outcome of our own orgulous Ostrich act. Perhaps it's too ominous and perhaps too obvious to close with a warning, but as they say, "be careful what you wish for." Even if it is as absurd a literary lark as wishing to live through the ups and downs of the interwar period.
With my fear of planes I suppose I've always felt as if I was born in the wrong era, that I was more suited for the leisurely travel norms of that time. Perhaps I'm kidding myself to entertain such notions but I've raced through Forster, Maugham, Greene, and Waugh and continually feel drawn to their world.
Naturally it was not without a sense of irony that I realized the other day that, in a way, I've been living in a new manifestation of that time period. Perhaps this realization should have occurred to me already with the gloom and doom of another depression splashed across the news each day (Unfortunately I tend to be tragically oblivious. For as observant as I feel I can be, this streak of blindness can be somewhat surprising).
It can be quite easy to find parallels between historical eras if one sets out to do so. I imagine it's almost as easy as finding behavioral or moral justifications in the bible. Everything is found for those who care to undertake the search. For my own comparison it's easy to picture the fracturing of a societal naivete, a la the WWI, in the events of 9/11, the roaring 20s in the freewheeling banking practices of the early 2000s, and our own recession as the depression. What is left but a war to bookend the period?
Obviously the time periods of these "parallel" events don't mesh. The later events occur compressed--a naivete that took four years to crack was shattered in only a day. As we were drowning in the forgetfulness of prosperity the world continued to move on around us.
My good friend in California, Matt, made a very valid point during our discussion of the dualities between responsibility and happiness. It serves very nicely has an ending point for this particular post. Matt compared the current state of much of the financial sector with that of our peers. I'm taking the liberty to quote him directly (courtesy of the wondrous gmail)--
"A lot of our generation has been blessed with many great opportunities and not often have we seen the possible negative consequences of the risks we have taken. So we keep on taking the risks, keep on pushing it."
If there is a better analogy that describes the majority of young American adults and their personal struggles between "reality" and the easy almost hedonistic lifestyle they had grown accustomed to, I have yet to see it. Matt's assessment of the situation nails the crux of the issue, for our own age or for the 1920s. In both eras we became tangled up in the illusion of prosperity...so fooled by the hopeful smokescreen of flourishing affluence that we lost sight of reality. We are now stuck with the outcome of our own orgulous Ostrich act. Perhaps it's too ominous and perhaps too obvious to close with a warning, but as they say, "be careful what you wish for." Even if it is as absurd a literary lark as wishing to live through the ups and downs of the interwar period.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Perks of Petrovice
As a history lover I've always wished I had a more tangible heritage. For some reason I've always felt a weird sort of identity gap. I've always felt that I perhaps lacked something that might separate me or grant a unique distinction in my life.
When my grandfather first began researching our genealogy I latched on to the famous "relatives" as if they were a feather to stick in my cap. But it all felt so very removed from reality--too distant. And with the immigration coming so long ago and in my mind from a "generic" place like the British Isles, it lacked luster to my young eyes. It all seemed too normal.
Identity had to be found in other places instead. Growing up in Arkansas it seems that I latched onto the affiliations that wuold separate instead of include. I rooted for the Cubs in the land of Cardinal fans, the Longhorns in the land of Razorbacks. Most avidly though, I clutched onto my maternal roots as a Texan. It is hard to conjure an apt metaphor to illustrate the....uncouthness of this particular stance as an Arkansan. Texas and Texans it seems are always hated or loved. There is no middle ground. Arkansas seemingly suffered in the shadow of Texas much like a little brother might (for most I think this was largely a result of many years of Southwest Conference football games).
This path of separation continued into my years living in Texas as I began to trumpet my Arkansan roots. Though never a hater, it was as a resident of Texas that I first realized how to appreciate the land I called home. I suppose I was wishing so badly to have an identity--wishing I came from somewhere--that I never realized I had always had one.
My own desire for an identity led me to be jealous of those I knew that had, as I saw it, tangible roots. So it was with some excitement that I found out for the first time that my grandfather knew the exact town, even the exact street address of the house in which my great great grandfather lived in Petrovice, a small town in the southwestern corner of the Czech Republic (though my Czech is nonexistent, I'm fairly certain that, irony of ironies, Petrovice is translated as "Peter Ville"). For the first time in my life I felt an attachment to a place, that those "tangible roots" were for the first time indeed tangible.
Though the world is vast, though there are many things I want to see, and though there are many places left to explore, for the time being they must take a back seat to my pilgrimage to Petrovice. It is perhaps premature to speak of this since it will be many months before this idea blooms into reality. The actual difference this discovery makes in my overall personality is most likely negligible, it is within the scope of possibilities that the biggest difference is made. I'm still the person who somewhat inexplicably roots for the Cubs and Longhorns but I've been granted an additional genealogical anchor that paradoxically opens up the world a little bit wider for me. And that, in my eyes clouded with the love of place and history, is a wonderfully uplifting gift.
When my grandfather first began researching our genealogy I latched on to the famous "relatives" as if they were a feather to stick in my cap. But it all felt so very removed from reality--too distant. And with the immigration coming so long ago and in my mind from a "generic" place like the British Isles, it lacked luster to my young eyes. It all seemed too normal.
Identity had to be found in other places instead. Growing up in Arkansas it seems that I latched onto the affiliations that wuold separate instead of include. I rooted for the Cubs in the land of Cardinal fans, the Longhorns in the land of Razorbacks. Most avidly though, I clutched onto my maternal roots as a Texan. It is hard to conjure an apt metaphor to illustrate the....uncouthness of this particular stance as an Arkansan. Texas and Texans it seems are always hated or loved. There is no middle ground. Arkansas seemingly suffered in the shadow of Texas much like a little brother might (for most I think this was largely a result of many years of Southwest Conference football games).
This path of separation continued into my years living in Texas as I began to trumpet my Arkansan roots. Though never a hater, it was as a resident of Texas that I first realized how to appreciate the land I called home. I suppose I was wishing so badly to have an identity--wishing I came from somewhere--that I never realized I had always had one.
My own desire for an identity led me to be jealous of those I knew that had, as I saw it, tangible roots. So it was with some excitement that I found out for the first time that my grandfather knew the exact town, even the exact street address of the house in which my great great grandfather lived in Petrovice, a small town in the southwestern corner of the Czech Republic (though my Czech is nonexistent, I'm fairly certain that, irony of ironies, Petrovice is translated as "Peter Ville"). For the first time in my life I felt an attachment to a place, that those "tangible roots" were for the first time indeed tangible.
Though the world is vast, though there are many things I want to see, and though there are many places left to explore, for the time being they must take a back seat to my pilgrimage to Petrovice. It is perhaps premature to speak of this since it will be many months before this idea blooms into reality. The actual difference this discovery makes in my overall personality is most likely negligible, it is within the scope of possibilities that the biggest difference is made. I'm still the person who somewhat inexplicably roots for the Cubs and Longhorns but I've been granted an additional genealogical anchor that paradoxically opens up the world a little bit wider for me. And that, in my eyes clouded with the love of place and history, is a wonderfully uplifting gift.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Low and High II
After receiving varied feedback it became evident that a more thorough exploration of the topic was required. My aim, beyond the obvious self-satisfying benefits of keeping a blog, is to be thought provoking, perhaps even somewhat insightful. I suppose the topic has been on my mind quite a bit of late. So I have decided to take the thread and forge forward into the dark woods. The thread really begins with my very good friend Tank and his comment to my previous post that I think is worth noting. He spoke of the necessity to live in the here and now, to let the adventures come when they come. Sage advice, albeit somewhat difficult to always follow.
Life is a shifting shape. It's like a water tube (I believe they may also be known as "slippery snakes"), those somewhat slimy plastic cylinders that are impossible to grasp. The trick, it seems, is in not grasping at all. Each time you try to squeeze it, the tube pops out of your hand. One might be able to grab it for a second before it squirts away again but that second is all one will ever be able to hold on to.
And so it is with life. We flail around in space, grabbing onto things and people, hoping they can provide the contentment we seek. We grasp onto fleeting glimpses of a happiness thinking it might last. It isn't until we are placid that the impossible toy is caught. Never through grasping are we to find our contentment but only with the open hands of calm patience.
Somewhere along the way I learned to accept life's gifts as they come--to give love, to accept love, and to live honestly--with others but especially with myself. My own potential for these things is not always met but I strive. Given the statements in the previous paragraph, striving might seem counterintuitive to patience. In my mind, striving for oneself, or attempting to reach a certain goal is definable and takes true patience. It is happiness that is mercurial. How do you strive after an elusive and incorporeal idea?
Perhaps it is too expansive and/or trite to summarize happiness in this way but it is as thus that I find myself. I still seek to experience the world on its own terms, I still dream dreams, I still breathe the oxygen of potentialities. The world of possibility, however, is something separate. The greatest of possibilities spring from true happiness and are not born of discomfiture.
Life is a shifting shape. It's like a water tube (I believe they may also be known as "slippery snakes"), those somewhat slimy plastic cylinders that are impossible to grasp. The trick, it seems, is in not grasping at all. Each time you try to squeeze it, the tube pops out of your hand. One might be able to grab it for a second before it squirts away again but that second is all one will ever be able to hold on to.
And so it is with life. We flail around in space, grabbing onto things and people, hoping they can provide the contentment we seek. We grasp onto fleeting glimpses of a happiness thinking it might last. It isn't until we are placid that the impossible toy is caught. Never through grasping are we to find our contentment but only with the open hands of calm patience.
Somewhere along the way I learned to accept life's gifts as they come--to give love, to accept love, and to live honestly--with others but especially with myself. My own potential for these things is not always met but I strive. Given the statements in the previous paragraph, striving might seem counterintuitive to patience. In my mind, striving for oneself, or attempting to reach a certain goal is definable and takes true patience. It is happiness that is mercurial. How do you strive after an elusive and incorporeal idea?
Perhaps it is too expansive and/or trite to summarize happiness in this way but it is as thus that I find myself. I still seek to experience the world on its own terms, I still dream dreams, I still breathe the oxygen of potentialities. The world of possibility, however, is something separate. The greatest of possibilities spring from true happiness and are not born of discomfiture.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Low and High
Having been out into the world, I often find myself restless here in my piece of America. From big dreams of a life of ease and happiness to smaller short term aspirations, I continually seek something greater. This is not necessarily because of my situation here. I believe I've always been this way. Though I do wonder if perhaps living in a smaller town creates bigger escapist fantasies, a sort of mental counteraction to fate's circumstances.
There's a person I work with whose own aspirations seem limited to a few drinks each night, a good meal, football video games, and a warm spot in bed next to his girl. His own scope, seemingly, is limited more to the here and now. Excepting the video games, his aspirations are as old as time. There are often times when I envy that, wishing I could be contented so easily. Looking back into my life I wonder if being abroad created greater horizons in my mind and thus destroyed any hope for that idealized notion of simplicity from my life.
"Focusing on nowhere/Investigating miles/I'm a seeker/I'm a really desperate man."
Just as I know those who seek solid and simple pleasures, I know many more who seek to explore, to know, to experience. We all dream of something more for our lives but paradoxically it is with those seekers that I, the inveterate homebody, find more common ground with. At times it seems a curse that my contentment isn't fated to last for long but I wonder if it's not actually a blessing.
There's a person I work with whose own aspirations seem limited to a few drinks each night, a good meal, football video games, and a warm spot in bed next to his girl. His own scope, seemingly, is limited more to the here and now. Excepting the video games, his aspirations are as old as time. There are often times when I envy that, wishing I could be contented so easily. Looking back into my life I wonder if being abroad created greater horizons in my mind and thus destroyed any hope for that idealized notion of simplicity from my life.
"Focusing on nowhere/Investigating miles/I'm a seeker/I'm a really desperate man."
Just as I know those who seek solid and simple pleasures, I know many more who seek to explore, to know, to experience. We all dream of something more for our lives but paradoxically it is with those seekers that I, the inveterate homebody, find more common ground with. At times it seems a curse that my contentment isn't fated to last for long but I wonder if it's not actually a blessing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)