The Chain I Forged in Life

I have a long-standing affection for "A Christmas Carol," by Charles Dickens. I've read it a several times and seen probably more than a dozen incarnations of it on the big and small screens, not counting thinly veiled or overt allusions to it as a scene or subplot in a movie or television show.

I have a couple of old radio-play adaptations with Sir Lawrence Olivier or Orson Welles and Lionel Barrymore.

And, on my commute, I recently listened to the audiobook of Jim Dale reading (performing) the unabridged work.

The images of Jacob Marley's ghost, come to visit Scrooge and sway him from the path he walks, were often the most harrowing to me -- and the most riveting. Without fail, the cinematic incarnations of Marley included a large cloth strapped under his chin and tied atop his head. When seeing "A Christmas Carol" films as a child, I always figured old Marley had some spectral toothache that was part of his purgatorial punishment. You know: tote these heavy chains for penance...and suffer this dental agony while you're at it.

Once I actually read the tale, I learned that the bandage was functional. It helped keep Marley's mouth from falling open.

The story pivots on the meeting and interaction of Scrooge and Marley (or, I should say, the entity that was Marley in life).


"It is required of every man," the Ghost returned,
"that the spirit within him should walk abroad
among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and
if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned
to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through
the world -- oh, woe is me! -- and witness what it
cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and
turned to happiness!"

Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain
and wrung its shadowy hands.

"You are fettered," said Scrooge, trembling.
"Tell me why?"

"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost.
"I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it
on of my own free will, and of my own free will
I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?"

-- Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Pass the Kimchi

The Koreas are in the news of late.

The indefinite fermata of cease-fire that formed a truce between the nations has left them at war for decades, as the North is wont to remind the world, when it feels it can gain some measure of aid or other support as placating acts from more diplomatic countries.

I remember Thanksgiving north of Seoul.  My year in Korea as a soldier-linguist was a turbulent one.

Though those of us who spoke Korean and spent our time eavesdropping on the North thought of ourselves merely as linguists (linguists plying our skills to gather intelligence on the bad guys), others were constantly labeling us as soldier-linguist and as electronic warfare operators. One of the peculiar quandaries about our view of ourselves as linguist rather than soldier-linguists was the realization that our battle plan, in the event of war on the peninsula, involved moving north toward the Imjin River and the 38th parallel.  All of the wargame exercises in which I was involved predicted all of my unit's assets neutralized within the first 48 hours.  That's watered-down, military-speak for saying we'd all be dead.

In South Korea (i.e., the Republic of Korea, or ROK), we U.S soldiers just assumed the news was always about troubles with North Korea (i.e., the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, or DPRK – which is a benign name that sounds like much better spin-doctoring than the more descriptive Oppressed Nation of Fanatics Compelled to Worship Their Great Leader with Unwavering Diefication...making for one beast of an acronym: ONFCWTGLUD).

My twelve-month tour included lots of tension over the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty, which interwove nicely with the DPRK's protests over Team Spirit (a large, joint military exercise with U.S. forces and ROK forces).  Also, Kim Il Sung drew his last dictatorial breath, leaving his nebbish, quirky son (Kim Jong Il) as an alleged heir -- one it was very likely the staunch DPRK generals could not abide.

That suddenly made what I was doing more important:  trying to find out what was happening behind the kimchi curtain.

Even South Korean nationals cannot go north of the Imjin River, unless their families own land between the river's banks and the portion of the demilitarized zone that divides the peninsula.  I've been there, though.  One moonless night I drove across Freedom Bridge in the dark, certain I wouldn't make it to see the next day. 

Freedom Bridge is at the northern terminus of Highway 1.  A special ROK military unit is stationed there to control access to the bridge, and, more importantly, to blow it to tiny bits if the North launches an invasion.  A great deal of the bridge, including the road deck, is constructed with railroad ties.  Old railroad ties. The bridge only allows for traffic moving in one direction.  And there are two elevated pathways of rail ties (like the reverse of tire ruts in a dirt road), forcing drivers to carefully steer as to avoid slipping a wheel to the lower level and veering toward the edge.  We crossed around midnight in black-out light. 

Black-out light basically means strict light discipline.  No headlights.  Instead, we have these tiny pin-lights on the grill of the HMMWV (humvee) grills, glowing under a small awning-like hood that directs the faint radiance downward.

I was supposed to have NVGs (night vision goggles) or NODs (night optical devices).  But, I didn't have any.  And I felt I was gonna lay a turd large enough that, if we fell off into the river and survived the fall, I could float to safety on my own -- ahem -- flotation device.  Of course, the steel truss framework of the bridge wouldn't have allowed my vehicle to find a hole and topple to the river below.  But, that was no real comfort.

This Thanksgiving, I’m content to watch the Korean drama unfold from around the globe.  I’m thankful to wake up in my home with my wife and daughters, our TiVo kind enough to play the Macy’s parade for us, and the promise of much food on the table.

Central Park Respite

Near Fifth Ave. and 60th, The Strand bookstore set up tables to offer merchandise for passers-by. While my wife and kids were in the Central Park Zoo, I had some time, a few dollars, and the inclination to occupy my mind. So, I purchased a used copy of Tana French's Edgar Award-winning novel, In The Woods.  Then, I settled onto the nearest unoccupied bench along the wall that borders Central Park up Fifth Ave. and opened the book to the prologue.

I swung my right leg up onto the bench in an act of kindness toward my knee. I'd been wearing a knee brace to help with swelling when I do much walking. I have to be delicate with the old joint, like elderly people with their brittle bones. A slight twist or shift in the wrong direction and I get a surge of pain to announce the mistake: a surge not unlike the blaring alarm that announces a botched procedure in the board game Operation. Aggravated by all the walking Manhattan imposes, my swollen knee was cursing me.

I think this knee development is part of a package of ailments associated with my aging. There are motes in my eyes that play the roles of ghostly apparitions as a matter of routine. I get light-headed more easily than I used to. And headaches are reliable as a daily discomfort. Plus, I fret over things that shouldn't merit it, and I worry over imagined unpleasant developments.

Sounds like a consuming novel was just the thing I needed to get lost in.

It was a fun read...one where you come to know the characters so well, and hold them in such regard, you are disappointed when reality sets in and you realize you won't be spending time with them once you finish reading their tale.

Cheers to Ms. French for a suspenseful ride. I think I need to hunt down here recent novel, Faithful Place.

Here are a couple of passages that drew my eye.


I remember that moment because, if I am honest, I
have them so seldom. I am not good a noticing
when I am happy, except in retrospect. My gift, or
fatal flaw, is for nostalgia. I have sometimes been
accused of demanding perfection, of rejecting
heart's desires as soon as I get close enough that
the mysterious impressionistic gloss disperses into
plain solid dots, but the truth is less simplistic than
that. I know very well that perfection is made up of
frayed, off-struck mundanities. I suppose you could
say my real weakness is a kind of long-sightedness:
usually it is only at a distance, and much too late, that
I can see a pattern.

. . . . . . . . .

...it seemed impossible that so powerful and heady a
thing could be coincidence. I had a sense of things
stirring, rearranging themselves in some imperceptible
but crucial way, tiny unseen cogs beginning to shift.
Deep down, I think -- ironic as it may seem -- a part
of me couldn't wait to see what would happen.

My Mental Cartography

With the holiday looming, I'm trying to prepare my desk for my absence, which involves consoling it in the form of tidy arrangements and dusted surfaces.

In general, my manner of organization (to the extent it can be identified as such) has tended to fall into the creative category. That is, my desk space is a series of swelling stacks and piles of documents and books for which my mind has mapped the relative location of each item. This mental cartography provides a workable sense of which strata any given item resides.

Periodically -- usually in association with project milestones -- it is necessary to sift through the various paper spires and act as a sort of compiler to identify that which can be shredded and to condense the multiple stacks into as few as possible.

However, because of my additional responsibility as an archivist in a long-term project, I've become increasingly aware of the benefits to a well organized file structure. And I'm made a genuine effort to apply these files across the breadth of all my projects.

It hasn't been as simple as the flip of a switch, my innate organization style isn't something that can just toggle to a new structure. But, I'm trying to transition and blend where beneficial -- and do so at a comfortable rate.

Something else that has heretofore been foreign to my way of thinking is the daily list. Each morning, I've been listing a series of tasks for the day on my dry-erase board, marking them off as they are concluded. Though counterintuitive to me, I can honestly say I've seen the benefit of keeping a focus within an eight- or twelve-hour day -- preventing, to some extent, a propensity to launch off on a tangential task that may not be as urgent or time-sensitive.

I guess my contrarian nature has resisted when someone announces that what I should do is make these lists or create these files or use this application to establish and track the minutiae of a complex project. I guess, as other things in life, it can't be thrust upon you. It really only takes hold at the point of personal revelation. Being told something, or having it imposed upon me, hasn't traditionally worked well for me. My reaction has always been to distinguish that what works well for the anal retentive (and makes them happy) will not necessarily work well for rest of the workforce. And I still think that is true. However, it seems I'm drifting a little closer to the dark side.

A Corner of History

Years ago, en route to the Dallas Museum of Art, we made an impromptu decision to stop by the Sixth Floor Museum, which is located on the sixth floor of the old Texas Schoolbook Depository building. History records the allegation that Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated President John F. Kennedy from a window on the corner of that sixth floor. Now, a museum encompasses the floor to honor the legacy of the Kennedy administration and capture historical artifacts of the Camelot years and the dark hours when the nation held its collective breath in November of 1963.

We never made it to the DMA the day we stopped at the Sixth Floor Museum. I guess I expected we'd go up there and find a warehouse-like space, with the corner cordoned off and people crowded around looking at the recreated '60s era boxes and a Mannlicher-Carcano bolt-action rifle placed neatly in the dust.

While it is true that you do get to witness some encased, life-size diorama at the infamous window (or at least you did then), the entire floor is a well conceived museum of fascinating memorabilia, photographs, films, recordings, etc. We were there for hours reading displays, watching new footage, and examining artifacts and photos on display. And we only left because the was closing.

And visiting the museum certainly wouldn't be complete without walking around Dealey Plaza and the infamous grassy knoll. It's also worth noting that the JFK Memorial is just a few blocks away.

On Pilgrimage

I'd been feeling the metaphysical pull of Archer City since I first read of Larry McMurtry’s used book store (Booked Up) that occupies several of the downtown buildings in his hometown.

The small town is remote enough to ensure any daytrip to its endless shelves would occupy an entire day.  But, as a veritable bilbio-mecca, I knew its allure would eventually reel me in.


Finally, one Friday morning last summer, my cousin picked me up at 6 a.m. and aimed his Jeep toward the northwest, circumnavigating the Dallas/Ft. Worth (DFW) metroplex and moving in the general direction of the panhandle -- away from suburbia and across the mesquite-covered plains, through the small communities that occasionally dotted the map.

McMurty has declared that the West begins at Ft. Worth, and I do get a since of what he means.  It's almost as if the stockyards in Ft. Worth and its fabled pseudonym of Cowtown signal the change in topography and density of population in the grassy plains and stark landscape of a more rugged existence -- where people work the land and live off it.

My cousin and I have talked about making this trip as far back as 2001, and possibly earlier than that.  But, setting aside a full day and synchronizing schedules proved too bothersome to overcome.  The desire always lurked, though, routinely rebuffed by the consideration that (roundtrip) travel time would likely require more than double the amount of browsing time -- and gas money would considerably damage the book-getting budget.

We arrived around 10:30.  I was armed with information from the website about which buildings held which book categories and topics, mindful that there was no strict system of cataloguing and shelving that would help locate a specific author or book.  I knew the adventure would be about excavation and discovery, a sort of forced browsing.

But, I did bring a small piece of paper with a wishlist of titles I hoped to one day own.  I soon knew that wouldn’t matter.  It was apparent the day would be about walking along, staring at books, and picking one up when it caught your eye.

Booked Up has its stock distributed throughout several building in the downtown area.  Somewhat surprisingly, I never encountered any employees in buildings 2 through 4.  As a patron, you were expected to bring any book you wished to purchase to the cashier located in building 1.

So, I wandered for hours and looked at things and enjoyed things and smelled the books.

Ultimately, I didn't purchase anything...partly due to the price of the used books.  I mean, I often shop at Half Price Books.  So, I'm accustomed to more affordable fair from used books.

But, I'm certainly glad I went.  And, if I hadn't, I'd have always wondered about it.

Grace, Cathedral, Still

I paid twenty-five cents

to light a little white candle -- The Decemberists, "Grace Cathedral Hill"

We visited St. Patrick's cathedral while in New York City a couple of summers ago.  I'd previously been there 20 years before.

Though I certainly adhere to the protest part of Protestantism,* I was not opposed to the prospect of exploring such a place.  (I like some of the spiritual solemnity in ritual, though I don't like being constrained by it.)

As we approached, we saw the members of a wedding party gathered on the steps.  Men uncomfortable in tuxedos.  Women exultant in elaborate dress.  Mingling with smiles and nervousness all around.  

The cathedral sanctuary was vast enough that we could enter unnoticed amid teeming activity associated with daily doings and the pending matrimony.  A place like that creates a mixture of shadows and light amid masonry and stained glass -- circumstantial metaphors often unremarked.

While there, I made a modest contribution to a moneybox and lit a candle in memory of my parents.  I am often reminded how much I miss them.  I sat quietly for a few moments in an uncomfortable pew, comforted by memories.  Reflective.

This time of year was always so wonderful when I was growing up.  Mom loved the holidays and the decorating.  Gatherings with the extended family were always fun – and the food put the comfort in comfort food (until you ate too much).

Each holiday season, I feel their absence and the presence of their spirit.

_______________________________________

* Wherein Martin Luther's posting of his 95 theses at Wittenberg heralded the Reformation and challenged the dominion of earthly hierarchy inserted between humankind and God**

** And the misguided, money-grubbing notion of indulgences

Personal Patriotism

I attended a Veterans Day program at the local high school. My daughter, resplendent and beaming with young adulthood, addressed the assembly to introduce a choir and read "In Flanders Field." More so than previous Veterans Day events at the high school, this year's ceremony seemed to elevate itself with a palpable patriotism that was decidedly uplifting. Student from many grades participates in choirs, in speaking roles, in behind-the-scenes preparations, in the band (performing service songs or playing "Taps"), or otherwise ardently waving flags and cheering the sacrifice and dutiful commitments of our veterans.

Then, Saturday morning, I slipped downtown when I realized the local Veterans Day Parade was about to begin.

I learned these small town parades tend to fall into extremes: very lame or very enjoyable. Fortunately, this weekend's parade was the latter. Several area high school bands marched and a number of local organizations were represented. A bus-van from a local nursing home drove the parade route with veterans from the home. Though the windows were so darkly tinted as to make it difficult to discern any figures inside, I could make out the motions of a waving hand, so I waved back enthusiastically.

I had an unexpected emotional blow when a vehicle came by with Gold Star Mothers. I figure there were at least some attendees lining the street that didn't not know the significance of that designation -- that these were mothers who'd lost a son or daughter in service of the country.

I saw my elementary school physical education coach (retired), my high school band director (retired), and many other familiar faces waving flags exuberantly.

There were overweight, fez-topped Shriners balanced precariously on tiny cars -- speeding along in figure-eight formations. And, as is inevitable in these parades, the caravan of old farmers riding their aged tractors.

The Blog of the Long Now

The Long Now is the recognition
that the precise moment you're in
grows out of the past
and is a seed for the future.

-- Brian Eno, "The Big Here and Long Now"

If all goes according to plan, the The Clock of the Long Now and its orrery (tucked away in a remote cave in the Great Basin National Park in Nevada) will dutifully track time through 10,000 years, a vast epoch of humanity. The tenable future conjured up from a long existence brimming with potential encourages us to veer from the prevailing dystopian vision.

The Clock of the Long Now will serve as an icon to spawn storytelling and myth, to encourage contemplation of the span of time and the place of us who exist in it both as individuals and a civilization. It is the kindly neighbor passing time on a porch swing and suggesting you consider not just your itinerary for the next week, or your plans for the next summer vacation, but the far, distant time extending many generations hence.

I like the idea of challenging people to mull over the possible future thousands of years down the timeline from us. It may cause us to exercise predictive muscles elsewise left to atrophy.

Give the star-gazing and wonderment its due, but then collapse all that back from the mainspring of celestial orbits and burrow down to the details of you. Think of it as a holistic philosophy to gaze at both stars and navels (omphaloskepsis!). Consider the instant of your existence and how that weaves into the fabric of the Long Now.

“Ultimately, however, it is only the lived, felt relationships that we daily maintain with one another, with the other creatures that surround us and the terrain that sustains us, that can teach us the use and misuse of all our abstractions.” [David Abram, Becoming Animal]

Perhaps we could one day measure existence not in decades or seasons or millennia or predictable intervals, but the fractals of personal relationships.

Continuity of Myths

On Halloween, I did something I would never have imagined likely.  I attended that hallowed American institution, the World Series. 

Decades after watching Nolan Ryan's 5,000 strikeout, and cheering Julio Franco's batter's stance, and witnessing Pete Incaviglia's outfield bellyflops at the bygone Arlington Stadium -- decked out in our new fan gear, my wife and I strode into the grandness of Rangers Ballpark and stepped into the mythosphere.

We are a nation given to our myths.  Short on history,
short on national ties, still seeking an American culture,
hardly rooted to village or church or an American past,
we find comfort, sustenance, and indeed continuity in
our myths. ...Baseball is, I suspect, our most
mythological of sports; it has the longest history, it is
by its own proclamation out national pastime,...
It is a sport with its own rhythms and graces,...
-- David Halberstam, "Baseball and the National Mythology,"
Harper's Magazine, September 1970


View of the outfield, during the playing of the national anthem for Game 4 of the 2010 World Series.