These are the last words I’ll write for this posting. Language doesn’t frame, at least not easily – language is temporal, by which I mean it’s linear, point A to point B. I’m not sure, in the abstract – the mathematical abstract – that time is linear, but language takes the form of linearity. Writing in a spiral, in a kind of circularity, thus violates the structure of language. But I’ll try.
The ex-girlfriend often tells me I’m not fun, and she’s right. I’m not “fun” – I’m interesting, and I can be witty, and I see the humor in lots of things, but I’m not fun. Fun comes from exuberance, and I don’t have that. A new but very good friend of mine recently started her own blog, and when I read it, I immediately knew that (a) she’s going to succeed at writing, (b) I’m not going to succeed at writing, and (c) I’m not fun. The reason all three came together was the sheer excitement and love of being alive that came across in her writing. As I’ve read my own words, what comes across is a sort of marvelling at the fact that this is the world that exists, that I can confirm this isn’t a mirage because too many other people are experiencing the same thing, but nevertheless, it’s isn’t exuberance, it’s wonderment, it’s marvelling, it’s awe – a sort of confusion, sometimes quiet, sometimes manic, that this is the world that exists at all.
Fun people – people who bubble, who tell jokes, who lead the charge on nights out and hen do’s and who do fun drugs and binge drink instead of becoming functional alcoholics – don’t give a damn about the broader world. They live in a moment, they wrap others into their moment, and they propel that moment into the stratosphere and, miraculously, bring it back to earth when it’s done. I live permanently at that 5,000 foot level – seeing the world, especially the long flats, the oceans and prairies, the sky above them, the mountains shrunk to silly bumps – and oddly, simultaneously at one inch above ground level too – the level where you see the gravel, the “bumpy sand” as my son called the rough aggregate in an alleyway beside his school the other day – where you can’t ignore the oily residue on the puddle or the cigarette butts and the bottle caps and the rolled up burger bag. The world is as beautiful at 5,000 feet as it is at one inch – but fun people only see it at 35,000 feet or at 5 feet up, eye level, ignore what’s at your feet and focus on the drink / woman / man / object in reach.
When I was thirty five, I went to Edmonton for a job interview. The executive search guy had said, here’s a strange bank, in a strange place, it’s not for everyone, and it’s definitely a clean up job. I said I love clean up jobs, as I took the call from outside the driving range where I was working as a cashier for the summer after my bank had failed in somewhat spectacular fashion, despite my best efforts at tidying up. I flew north to the prairies, marvelling at the endlessless of it all, and thinking yeah, I could live here. I went to a crappy downtown four star hotel – there are no worse hotels than four star hotels, especially in the central parts of North America – and my future boss picked me up.
He had white hair and was in his early sixties. He was driving a ten year old Lexus. We had had a phone interview and it had gone well, but I opened the door and could see the look of shock and disappointment on his face – I knew the look. “Who is this idiot kid, and why am I bothering to continue with this discussion”, I saw on his face. I did my best to say “I know you think I’m young, but I’m smarter and better at my job than you could ever hope to be, so get over it” as I complimented him on his car and said how pleased I was to meet him in person.
After dinner, where the CEO had shown up after hosting a golf event and done his whirlwind thing, the future boss drove me back to the hotel. You knew immediately that I thought you were too young, he said. Yes, I said, but I’ve had that before, so I don’t hold it against you. You’re the right guy, and I was an idiot for that reaction, he said. Yes, I said, and this is the right place for me, and you might be an idiot, but admitting it makes you a decent human being, and that’s all I ask for from a boss. He smiled – and his smile is something I’ll remember when I breathe my last, because it’s the smile of a man who could admit his own weakness – and said I think tomorrow will go really well. It did.
I’m going to try an experiment. I’m going to write this as a set of concentric circles.
When I was maybe eight years old, my father was on a business trip. The trip occurred at the same time as the opening night of the Portland symphony, and since my family was a decent donor, my mom and dad had been invited to the opening night reception. I loved classical music – still do – and since Dad was out of town, my mom took me as her date. I’m not sure what my sister did; she was a bit older and probably did something with some friends. I was “eight going on fifty eight”, as people liked to say, so I had few friends and jumped at the chance to go to what was a glorified cocktail party.
I mingled, ate canapes, enjoyed free soda – much later I’d realize I’d enjoy cocktails far more – and played the part of my father, working the room and talking with all and sundry. The symphony was excellent; Portland has always had a much better symphony than it deserves, much as Edmonton has the best hotel bar on earth despite being stranded in the northern prairies. My mom got lots of compliments about how grown up I was; they had caviar, and I loved it. The caviar, I mean – the crowd was banal and boring and working the room was a chore, and I had an inkling of the weariness I now see in my father.
My father has been ready for the only destination any of us ever have for a while now; his health hasn’t been great but the combination of things that make up his “not great” health are conspiring to create the event that will have him arrive at the destination. The trouble is, much like an Amtrak train in late fall, the delays are interminable. He’s been ready to get off the train for a long time, but there are leaves on the track; the switch from the electric to diesel unit in New Haven (I know, it’s an out of date reference) is taking too long – and moreover, the cafe car has run out of the microwave pepperoni pizza and hot dogs that make Amtrak bearable, and we’re all sick of the delays. And he missed the opening night of the symphony, and his son took over the mantle even though his son is a pale image of himself, and he wonders whether the world will be worthy of God’s grace when his son and his generation take over.
Just to be clear, Dad, my generation – such that it is, if it is – will never take over. Between the insane compression of communications and logistics that marked your time on earth, and the fact that we were educated in an older tradition that seems to have no value in tomorrow’s world, my generation never had any grip on power or insight or change, and the youngsters already own this earth and my ken are just powerless observers. On that level, we are almost Platonically perfect: my generation had no choice except to realize we were here to clean up the past but also realize we would have no grip on the future, no influence, and the future generations would view us as a useless vacuum, more so because we bridged the gap, at least the 19th century ancestors weren’t aware of what the future would bring, my generation had some insight and yet we still clung to literature and realist art and linear drama. My generation isn’t “we” – no generation is a consistency – but I read enough and keep track enough of cultural memes to know that my “class” will be forgotten, we are an irrelevance.
So I’m not fun, but you’re not supposed to be when you grow up in a zone of transition. You’re fodder. You’re experimented on and toyed with, and the successes are applied to a more pliable and succulent future generation, the failures ignored and left for archaeologists several centuries beyond. My world has no meaning (except in that I’ve got a son, who will be meaningful because he can transcend the world that I was born into), and I accept that. I also understand it. It’s how it should be. My son’s world could not exist without me, but I am only a vanishingly small and incomprehensibly meaningful piece of the foundation on which he will create the future.
I’m on a flight to London. I’m in London for six days – I could have been there for two, for the interviews and discussions about a future role with a bank that, like all the other banks I’ve worked for, needs serious help – but I’m there for six days. Six days are correct, is right – my whole body, especially the core of me that feels my soul, that externalizes my mind, feels it to be right. At the same time, I know I’m still too young, and still older, than any world in which I could live could easily embrace.
Well said
Observers have always been detached, outsiders, ‘not from nor of’ the place that they are commenting upon. It is true of journalists, radio anchorman, (banking clean-up crew), BECAUSE they are the kind of people who reflect on society (instead of being the reflection of society). You do need distance to look at the forest, and if you are at 35’000 feet – all you can say is that it’s green. A few decades ago, these observers – with their critical judgements and sharp insights – were valued and often given audiences to voice their concerns. And the world would become a better place because they ‘stirred the pot’ and saw the nakedness of the emperor.
Yes, your posts have a tone of ‘I can’t believe this is the world we live in’. It’s not about the ‘WOW’ nor the ‘WTF’. And more interestingly, it’s not about being anxious nor hopeful – it simply is. For one, I like that. Because what you see is the unadulterated reality of this very day – and all the meaning embedded in this (or any) minuscule moment.
You are in sync with time itself. Don’t underestimate how very precious that is…