Making Decisions

Jonah Lehrer's How We Decide opens a window onto the inner workings of the human mind. I have always had an interest in the intersections between brain chemistry and cognition, and Lehrer's work answers so many of my questions. In the very briefest of nutshells -- dopamine and the prefrontal cortex work together (or in opposition) and thus our decisions are made. Lehrer takes gambling, credit cards, and the stock market to task, since all three play upon logical failings within the mind. His work has forced me to take a sterner look at why I make the choices that I do.

Example:

I have for several weeks been attempting to eat better, to choose foods that are of better quality, more likely to end my hunger, and best for me and my personal longevity. But, if I fail to eat a proper breakfast, one that has enough staying power to last me until lunch, and I find myself near the coffee counter in the library, all of those muffins, which I know to be both bad for me and bad tasting, call my name. This is my prefrontal cortex demanding a sugar spike. It has lost the energy it had from breakfast, and you know what, when your mind is focused on writing, or reading a complicated text, and it is faced with the possibility of an easy sugar fix -- it will take the easy fix. Before I know it I'm munching unhappily on an icky-muffin, ruining my meal plan, and leaving my wholly unsatisfied with my choices. Boom.

The lesson I take from this? Willpower needs help. In any specific moment our minds can fail us. We can be misled by quick numbers, or by the need for a shot of sugar. Getting ourselves to make better choices takes care and careful planning. Breakfast needs to be more substantial, and better mid-morning snacks need to be made readily available so that the icky-muffin doesn't present so tempting an option.

Thank you, Jonah Lehrer, for making me understand my own mind a little better.

My Grandfather - R.I.P. April 18, 1930 - June 30, 2010

Sometimes people get better. Sometimes they don't, and we have to say goodbye. We said goodbye to my grandfather a week ago Wednesday. I flew down to Florida earlier on the same day. Little Thorn was in tow. I saw grandpa alive, one last time, but he barely looked like the man I have known all my life. Thin, pained, his breathing shallow, my grandpa, once so vigorous, so engaged, waited for his body to admit defeat. It is not something I think he did easily. Death has knocked on my grandpa's door more than once in his eighty years of life. But, in the end, we all die. Avoidance is temporary. Eighty years is long. One hundred years still wouldn't have been long enough. Thorn got to say goodbye, too, although he didn't know it at the time. There were many tears, though none of them mine. I've said goodbye to two grandpas now, and I still haven't cried. I don't really know why. Everyone else did, even my father. Maybe someday it will hit me, and I will weep. Right now, though, I write.

Grandpa did not want to be buried, and so according to his wishes he was cremated and his ashes spread around the grounds of his Floridian church-home. The funeral service, which I could not attend, I am told was beautiful and fitting for my grandfather. I am glad. There is power in ceremony, in ritual, and funerals can help to close relationships, just as marriages can begin them.

I have also seen the strength of my family through this, and the strength of my grandmother. There were tears, but there was also laughter. Stories were swapped. Tales of sorrow, of joy, of humor, and of foolishness were traded around the tables of my grandmother's small home. Grandpa would have been happy. He will be missed.

All love to you, Grandpa.

Porto, portas, portat.

My Grandfather

I had the great fortune to grow up in close proximity to all four of my grandparents. My parents met in High School, and their families lived only a block apart. This situation stayed the same until my father's parents moved to Florida. I think I was nine or ten when they did. My mother's father died in 2005, rather unexpectedly. My father's father is now ailing in his Florida home. I spoke with my mother this morning. She and my father will soon be on a plane to Florida. It doesn't look good. I thought, then, that it would be good, before word comes to me one way or the other, to write about my grandfather.

He loves television. I recall that the largest unit was up on the second floor of their Long Island home, and it dominated their Florida home's living room when they moved there. Sports are the prize shows, especially those featuring New York teams - most particularly the New York Giants. I learned my first curse word from my grandfather, who could often become irritated at his team's progress during a game.

I came to love the water because of him and my grandmother. They had a pool while they lived in New York, and I spent every summer of my remembered childhood there. When they moved to Florida, I was crushed, but they visited often, and we visited often, and there was still swimming, and there were amusement parks, and laughs, and card games, and fun. That is what I remember most about my grandfather -- he was fun. He was light-hearted, full of banter, full of stories. He was warm. We haven't had the chance to speak as much as I would like these past few years. I am busier and less organized than I want, and he was less well. But ours isn't much of a talking relationship, anyway. It was a doing relationship. With grandpa there were things to do. He loves food as much as I do, and movies, and eating out at restaurants. There is a picture I will always treasure from our last visit with him. He is holding Thorn, our son, and I am sitting next to him. Grandfather, grandson, and great-grandson. The oldest and the youngest members of our family together at the same time. It is a beautiful picture. I will tell Thorn all about his great-grandfather, and he will have that picture to know, for it is evident in it, how warm, generous, and loving his great-grandfather was through all his life.

I love you, grandpa, and I hope you pull through. We're praying for you.

The Ten Book Challenge

Fox and I own a lot of books. We both had fairly significant individual collections, and in the six years we've been married, we've managed to increase our library by several hundred books a year. We do not, alas, read several hundred books a year, and so we have a growing, ever-growing number of unread books on our shelves. In order to stem the tide, before we are overwhelmed, I have decided to institute the Ten Book Challenge.

I pledge that I will not purchase any new book until I have read at least ten books from my personal library. Books from other libraries do not count, which, you see, makes this challenge rather difficult, as most of my reading is school-library related.

Ten Book Challenge begins now!

Redo

"People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but *actually* from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint - it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly... time-y wimey... stuff." - The Doctor

I don't know if the Doctor is right about time, but his statement certainly can apply to blogs. My last entry, sometime in late April, was all about working, about getting enough courage to start working, to stick working, to keep your head up and soldier on. I didn't really do that. I fell. I wept. I shattered into a million pieces, and now, with June rolling to a sweltering close, I am finally putting myself together again.

I have decided to pick up my own challenge. It is necessary to write every day. Writing must become an addiction. I've tried so hard to make it one, but each time I fall short. Well, folks, I'm starting again. I need to. I can't explain why yet, though I think it has a lot to do with sentiments of self-worth, but I need to try again. I need to get it right. Today is Sunday. It begins my week. Tomorrow, Monday, is the first step in my challenge. We'll see how it goes.

Love to you.

~ Sparrow 

Practice Makes Art

Hello, blank screen.

We meet again.

I'm getting a little tired of these gatherings.

You mock my existence, and I do whatever I can to shatter yours.

It is an odd cycle.

Don't you agree?

---

Blank screens are compelling, are they not? Perhaps not as compelling as empty pieces of paper, but close. Both are awkward in their naked state. Embarrassed, even. A piece of paper with a word or two jotted down upon it is at least fulfilling its purpose. The tree, who gave up its life for the purpose, did not perish vainly. The same is true for word processor screens, save that the trees are safer now. A blank screen is empty, lifeless, devoid of art and substance. Put a word on it, however, and it has purpose. Put a second word next to the first and the blank screen isn't blank. It is actually a remarkably easy process - writing. You think words and then you, well, write them. The trouble comes when you say to yourself that you have chosen the "wrong" words. It is not, however, the words which are wrong, but the writer. Confidence is the chief ingredient. The rest--all the rest--can be acquired after. Skill comes with time and with practice. Writing is an art. All arts require practice.

I've never been good at practice. When I was a boy I wanted to play the piano. I didn't want to practice playing the piano. I wanted to play it. I wanted to sit down at the keys and channel Bach or Mozart. I want music to rise up awesomely from my fingers. When this miracle of talent did not happen, I quickly lost interest. I hated to practice. The monotony of sitting hour after hour, day after day, working my fingers into shape, learning the shapes and distinctions of the musical marks, gaining a sense of rhythm, did not appeal to me. I abandoned the piano. I also abandoned the flute, the clarinet, tap dancing, and solo-singing. Math, too, once it required more work than the most basic algebra, I left behind. Anything that required me to practice, I despised. But now, seated as I am in graduate school, staring my dissertation in the face, I realize that I have long been a coward and a fool. For, you see, I must write, and I must write like I have never written before. And writing requires practice.

I still hate to practice, but now, at least, I know why I do. It was not, as I told myself all those years ago, that the subject just didn't interest me. It was because the subject was hard, and I was afraid to fail. If you don't do something, you don't fail at it. If you try, however, you will probably fail at least some of the time. Your fingers will miss a key, or your eyes will miss a note, or you will miss a step in your equation--and that idea, that concept of failure, was so terrifying that I backed away from it. I have run away from everything that was too hard to do. I have permitted myself to move by innate ability, choosing easy things, playing to my strengths, because when I did that I was less afraid of failure. But now that this vast writing project is before me, I have had to come to terms with my fear. I was afraid to fail, but now, I'm afraid not to.

It is a remarkable shift. I fear not-failing, or rather not-doing, more than I fear failing. I would rather fail, for failing means that I tried. I did something! I am tired of not doing anything, of watching while others do things. I want to write. I want to love writing. I want to foster an addiction to writing. I want to be ill with the idea of not-writing, rather than be ill with the idea of writing and writing poorly. I don't care if I write poorly. I can edit. I don't care if I ramble. I can edit. I don't care if my first ideas don't work. I can revise. I can edit. You see, I'm sure, the same pattern that I do. It shouldn't be the blank screen that is compelling, but the one that is filled with my words. Like Michelangelo with marble, a blank screen should burn to be filled, formatted so that a shape emerges from it: the shape of my work. That is what I intend. That is what I will try to do. I accept that I will fail as often as succeed, but at least now I'm practicing, and I'm bloody happy about it.

The Food Meme -- and I want answers!

Here is a blank meme, from which I want to see answers from YOU. Gimme a comment with your favorite foods. I'll wield it with efficiency whenever you visit. Mwahahaha!

The Food Meme

In everyone's life, there is the potential for the ultimate day of food: a day wherein all foods are favorites, and all sounds are sounds of delight. So go on: wake up! Today is your lucky day.

It's morning. You're still partially asleep when your significant other holds a cup of _________________ under your nose. Best morning drink EVER.

This is followed shortly thereafter by your favorite breakfast, which is _______________________.

Later, at the gym, you need a quick energy snack. Your favorite is ___________________.

What a productive morning! To celebrate, you buy each of your co-workers your favorite sandwich, _________________, and your favorite cold drink, ________________________.

Hungry again? Well, it IS time for lunch. What do you have? ______________________.

Well-fortified, you easily make it through the rest of the day, to supper. Or is it dinner? A sage over your shoulder quips that "dinner" is whatever the largest meal of the day is, unless it's breakfast. So what do you tell the sage? When is "dinner" for you? ________________________.

Time for supper! And I'm sure you have an ultimate feast in your mind. What is the best supper (or dinner) you could possibly have waiting for you when you get home? ____________________.

And no day is complete without your favorite desert, right? _______________________.

Ahhhh, bliss. As you slide between the covers, your stomach says that no, it isn't quite bliss without that other favorite food -- the one you couldn't fit in before now. You sigh and walk to the kitchen to have some ________________.

Sweet dreams!

Fatherhood: The First Hour

Thorn will be a year old at the end of May.

A year ago, when Fox was nearing the end of her pregnancy, when the fateful moment was weeks and not months away, I made a decision. I decided that I would capture the memories of my first year of fatherhood in a special journal, and then I would share the best parts with whoever would listen. I chose a happy blue journal--we knew Thorn was a boy, and so blue seemed only fitting. Affixed to the front was a lacquer turtle, and, because it was cute, it fit with the sentiment of a father's journal about his son. My pen scratched in some small details of the day Thorn was born, but the rest of the journal is bare.

I never understood how much work it was to raise a child. I knew, of course, that it was work, but the time, the hours, the exhaustion…these were things about which I possessed no accurate sense. I have spent a little time beating myself up for not keeping to my original plan. But that type of self-indulgence just doesn't sit well for long. No, there is no point getting upset about work you haven't done. Don't cry over spilled milk. Clean it up. Dear friends, here is the beginning of that process.

---

Thorn entered the world eagerly. Weeks ahead of his due date, he decided to squirm his little body out into the bright light of his first day. Unfortunately, his attempts met with little success. Simply put, his head was too large and Fox's bones too delicate and slender. The most exceptional physician knew what to do, and so Fox and Thorn (still wriggling away, perhaps aware that his moments in the womb were swiftly departing) were ushered off to the nearby operating room. Never before in my life had I observed a crew of people move so quickly and so calmly. I, alas, was anything but calm. C-section. Surgery. They were going to cut open my love, and she was out the door before I had time to get the green frock they'd tossed in my direction over my head. I did manage to get garbed. Many thanks are owed to my mother-in-law, who maintained her serenity when I had lost mine to the rush and the winds. The pants were several sizes too large, and so I had to hold up the ensemble with one hand. For minutes (exceedingly long minutes) I waited just outside the operating room. A nurse eventually arrived to convey me to Fox's side. The operating room was small. A huge curtain had been raised above Fox's midsection. The anesthesiologist sat by her head. His small corner of the room was filled with enormous machines that hissed and whistled as they pumped merrily away at their appointed tasks. Another nurse, or perhaps the same who led me in, provided me a folding chair. I sat down, my legs trembling, my breath short, and my heart pounding. The surgery had already started. I could hear it, though blessedly, I couldn't see it. Fox and I comforted one another as best we could, as the most exceptional physician did her work.

We knew the baby was out before we heard him. There is this terrible and intense moment, when, blinded by the curtain, you cannot see the babe they've pulled from your love. You wait, counting heartbeats, straining to hear a breath, a cry, a squeal, anything to confirm that your child is healthy--that your child is alive. There is a sound that comes first, a strange suctioning sound, and then, finally, you hear the intake of breath and the cry. Loud. Throaty. Indignant. Little Thorn wailed to the world that he had arrived and that he didn't think it was as great as he hoped. No doubt it was too bright, too cold, and too crowded with strange and mysterious folk garbed in sterile greens and blues. Thorn was cleaned, placed in a plastic bed atop a cart, and then wheeled over where we got our first look.

He was thin. His long limbs of bone thrashed about while the nurses measured, poked, and prodded to see if all was well. All was well. I think I cried a little, and I kissed Fox, and she kissed me. We were parents. Here was our child. He was red and distressed. His skin was wrinkled and filmy. And yet, he was beautiful.

The most excellent physician restored Fox's body to its closed state, and then they once more wheeled my love away. I remained behind to stand as a witness to the marking of my child. Hospital rules require that each parent and child receive wrist-bands that indicate you belong together. These bands come off only on the day you take your baby home. Fox needed to be in post-surgical recovery, and so I stood, jittery, dancing from foot to foot, as the nurses took samples of blood from Thorn's foot, and then placed identical tags on each of us. I got my first good look at him. He was well-formed. A strong torso and the lungs to inhabit it extended into four bony limbs that twitched and flailed passionately. He had hematite eyes -- I will never forget them, though now they've gone, replaced by browns and lighter grays. His skin was warm and dry when I touched him. I was not permitted to hold him yet, but I longed to. He was my son. My boy. My firstborn. Together, once he was tagged, diapered, and bundled, we went to find his mother in recovery.

I thought the most stressful time was behind me.

Silly me.

---


More on Fatherhood in a later installment.

Primary Source Hell

There is little worse in the writing world than making bibliographies of eighteenth-century British newspaper clippings. My beloved Chicago simply doesn't have clear enough guidelines for them. I took what otherwise worked and applied it, but there's this nagging feeling that I missed a comma. Or a period. Or a location. Perhaps another level of publisher? Arrrrrgh.

(Thank goodness some of my sources come from this lovely compilation. They aren't precise, but this isn't for a dissertation. And the best part is that Internet sources are so easy to cite.)

Writing-Fox

I have never looked at my vixfey Gmail address at this hour in the morning. Apparently, what happens in my fox-themed tea house background is that three ghost foxes get together the garden to play Go. I find this amusing.

What I did not find amusing was last night. I must have leeched the insomnia from my brother, or perhaps from Sparrow, allowing him to sleep (that at least sounds philanthropic). I could not get comfortable. All of the little lights, so small in the bright sunlight of day, got to me. Even when I blocked them with artful stackings of the comforter, my mind raced. I worry, because it always seems to happen when I have things to write. So here I am, trying to write enough to confound my inner writing-fox, as it were.

I call it my writing-fox, not because everything is fox to me, or because my fox-associated best friend always nudges me to write, or even that the muse of our Unseelie Court is Fox, but because of something earlier, read in a fit of poetry. The Thought-Fox, by Ted Hughes. The poem takes place at night, and concerns writing more than anything else. A blank page becomes printed, and it is an effort, but an animal one, as all nighttime efforts are, in part.

I would like to fall prey to a sleep animal, myself, but my writing-fox is quite the insistent one. It isn't passive, as Hughes's fox. And foxes smell, did you know that? As strongly as a ferret or skunk. So while most folk may maintain the mental image of a fox as a sly creature easily eluding hounds, mine is of a skulking Presence who lurks with intentions known, demanding to be found, hard to see, but obviously there. In more than one tradition, foxes went between the spirit world and this one, so why not make a writing-fox usher of inspirative words? Especially at night. At night, when I would rather sleep and let the feathery martlets guide me to dreams with no grounding. But foxes invade the dreams, give me ideas, make me wake up and write them down lest they, with much gleeful yipping, retreat to torment me at a later time. Not all writing-foxes retreat, however. This one planted himself squarely on my chest and stared. I will need a new animal to push them away and guard my sleep, methinks. A ferocious dachshund...?

Shrink-Wrap

Do you ever feel like time is shrink-wrap, conforming to your habits and pushing out your occasional, deviant joys? I don't like having the mere outline of a life. The only thing I can do is to tear at the shrink-wrap, or else make more things habitual.

Writing, for instance. Who says I have to limit myself to the Most Important Matters first? It isn't as though there is a shortage of ink. Writing is positive feedback. The more you write, the more you create an addiction to write. Starting today, I'm tackling all of my backlogged correspondence, my limping blog, and my dusty idea-books. They will be viewed. Written-in. Covered with words in their imperfection. I will not wait until summer to work on sellable fiction. I will feed my sense of wonder until it is a bonfire, until others' firepits spontaneously ignite. Write, my friends, write! Write before you rot!

...and then post something here of your writing. It doesn't have to be more than a phrase. I'm just keeping you honest! Throw a stick onto the fire, eh? It's cold without words.

Good News, Bad News

Good News: Working for about an hour, each taking a half-hour shift, my spouse and I have finally freed one of the cars.
Bad News: We're about to be snowed in again. Significant snow will hit the region (again) sometime between Tuesday and Wednesday. Right now they're predicting 12-18 more inches. On top of the 25-30 we got this weekend.

Good News: Being snowed in has given Sparrow and I time to pack.
Bad News: We've run out of tape, twine, and boxes.

Good News: I've been getting good stuff on cross-dressing marines in the British navy, 1700s.
Bad News: I can't get to the library to pick up books on the subject. Good thing early English newspapers are available via Internet.

Cooking with Ellie Krieger

Inspired by the film, Julie/Julia, and, more particularly, by the tale of Julia Child's own trials and triumphs, I have decided to share my love of food and cooking with all of you. The first step was to find the appropriate cookbook. I avoided Julia Child's guide to baking, since, forgive me Julia, I just cannot live with the amounts of butter she was fond of. Since I want this to be a weekly practice, I needed a cookbook that would give me tasty food, but also healthy food.

Ellie Krieger's The Food You Crave fit the bill, and so that is the cookbook I've chosen. This project is not thematic, nor very organized. Each week for as long as it takes, I will cook one recipe out of Ellie Krieger's cookbook. This week it was Roasted Cauliflower with Nutmeg. Astoundingly simple, this recipe only required four ingredients: cauliflower, olive oil, nutmeg, and salt. You sort of just mix it all together and roast it in an oven-safe dish for about an hour at 350°. Ms. Krieger swears that this recipe will turn cauliflower haters into lovers of the white, bush-like vegetable.

I admit that I am a cauliflower hater, and while this was the best tasting cauliflower I've ever had, I'm no convert. Still, Fox loved it, and even Thorn had a small helping. It will return to our table again.

The Best of Broadway (IMHO) #1

Because all good things must come to an end. Because not all endings are final. And, because sometimes you have to stand up and say "World, this is my time now." For all that, and because it makes me cry, this song from Gypsy is my number one.

#1: "Rose's Turn" from Gypsy

The Best of Broadway (IMHO) #2

Much subtlety is lost in our hyper, stylized, and glossy media world. There are things to be said about old actors and their ability to bring to life so much with so little. While some modern actors have this talent, and many old actors didn't, I think, if recent trends at the box office are any indication, that subtlety is no longer quite so important. This song is an ode to a fading art. As a classicist, I appreciate this very much.

#2: "With One Look" from Sunset Boulevard 

Slowly Shrinking

Thursday is weight checking day here, and as has become my new habit, I climbed onto the scale this morning to see if there has been some progress. And, to my surprise, there was! I have broken the 180 lb barrier, which is one of the hardest things for me to do. I've been here before. Actually, I've been here a couple of times. I hope I can maintain my new under 180 weight, but history indicates that it will be an uphill battle. Eating this week hasn't been great. I've cooked nothing of interest, and I've been subsisting on hummus, yogurt, and sesame seed-buttered bagels. I need to get the vegetables up. Thank goodness for V8 Fusions. I'll be trying a cauliflower recipe this weekend. I don't normally go for that particular vegetable, but this new recipe has me interested.

Starting Weight: 186 lbs.
Current Weight: 178.3 lbs.
Goal Weight: 159 lbs.

Shivers and Anguish

We just got two new fantasies which have us both in shivers and anguish, and I really want to share them with you, so you can shiver too.

The first is Robin Hobb's Dragon Keeper. It's the beginning of a series set in the same world as her Assassins, Ships, and Tawny Man trilogies. Specifically, it focuses on the Rain Wilds, and from the character list at the beginning, includes some old Ships characters. As the Ships books are our favorites in this particular Hobb universe, we are understandably aquiver with anticipation. Now if only Hobb can recover from her Soldier Son novels...

The second book is Except the Queen, by Jane Yolen and Midori Snyder, from a short story of the same name in the award-winning Fair Folk compilation. Easily the best of the stories, Except the Queen captured our imaginations -- and those of the publisher, no doubt. We were ecstatic when we learned it was to be transformed into a full-length novel. Hopefully the fruit of the promising flower will be as lovely. Again, shivers.

Now you might ask why, with such potentially wonderful novels in our collective grasp, we are also in anguish. Ah, my friends, it is simple:

We don't have time to read them until this weekend.

...

Sigh.

Maybe we can give up eating. Or showering. Or read in the shower. I wonder if there are waterproof editions...