A Deep Breath (#23)

Ugh. It is now nine-thirty at night, the Sunday before Memorial Day. I am tired and bloated. Thirty minutes ago, I began typing away at my one-hundred-ninety-sixth blog post. Eventually, two full, solid paragraphs about my opinions of television series appeared on the screen.  They were a good introduction to a worthwhile discussion on the topic. But soon I realized time was running out. By ten o'clock I would have to hit publish, and share a link on Facebook. 

So, I saved it as a "draft", and clicked on the "create new post" button. Now I am writing this post instead. And what are you ending up with, dear reader? Unfortunately, a short rant, about how corporations suck. Especially the giant ones worth billions of dollars. 

This time it is Disney+. Do not worry, this is not some absurd Fox News hit job about how the streaming service is too woke. Woke is not even a word, and, yes, I should do a post about that fact, too. However, not now.

Instead, this is a short diatribe about how corporate desires to cut expenses by refusing to compensate those who actually create the work ruined my weekend.

You see, on Thursday of last week, I discovered in my Google newsfeed a new show on Disney+ that some stranger highly recommended. They said it was a cross between Netflix's A Series of Unfortunate Events, and Wes Anderson's Fantastic Mr. Fox. I thoroughly enjoyed both, going so far as to rewatch them both. I was interested. But the article also warned the powers that be at the illustrious streaming service were going to remove the series. It never mentioned when it would happen. Nor that it would be permanent. 

Unfortunately, I would learn the answer to both by Saturday afternoon, when I tried to finish the last two episodes of the first season (there was as second season, but the third one was cancelled, which did not bother me). 

You see, I had binged the first six fifty-five minute long episodes the day before. First, the color. It was just like a Wes Anderson movie. Second, the characters. They were intriguing. Just enough absurdity to make it funny, but not so much that I did not believe them. And, more importantly, the child actors were not annoying. Then there was the plot. It sounded strangely apropos of current political events, but not in a preachy, in-your-face kind of way. Finally, there were only eight episodes in a season, and just two seasons to binge. Win-win in my opinion. 

So, I committed myself to a weekend of binging this series. By eleven-thirty on Friday night, I sat through six episodes. I was fully invested in the finale, but I needed to go to bed. The conclusion would have to wait until the next day.

I woke, and spent all of Saturday morning well into the afternoon doing laundry, taking care of the pool, and power washing the fence. Then I took a shower, and prepared dinner. With those chores completed, I sat down to finish up season one. Comfy in my couch recliner, a bottle of diet root beer on one side, and the pile of remotes on the other, I turned on the Roku, and my way to Disney+. Finally, I scrolled down to the "Recently Watched" list.

And the show was not there.

Although I went through the motions of doing a search, I knew the truth. Disney had pulled it from its streaming service. Soon after, I found an article stating that on May 26th the streaming service would be removing a bunch of shows. My newfound, but not fully watched, series was one of them.

The worse part? The article revealed that Disney has no intention of returning the show to the lineup. Ever. Or releasing it anywhere else. They will not even sell a copy via DVD. The reason? They do not want to continue to compensate the writers and actors of the series for their hard work. It is too much of an expense.

Anyway, I am out of a show. Well, two. They also removed Life Below Zero: Next Generation. I am done investing my time in these series. Instead, I am going to go back to reading books.

Except, a part of me fears with this AI stuff, the book market will be flooded with formulaic drivel. I mean, exponentially so. Far beyond what already exists. And I find that depressing.

I think it is time to wrap this up and head to bed. 

Sigh.   

On Dreaming (#19)

"Monk Praying in the Church" by Alfred Jacques Van Muyden. 
The answer to why I never became a priest is in this painting.
And it is not the priest's haircut or outfit.

I began drafting this while sitting in my bedroom recliner. After typing out the first paragraph, my wife arrived. She had decided to watch the Mets' game in the room. So, I grabbed the laptop and the charger,  and made my way downstairs to the family room. There I discovered my eldest daughter, in my spot on the couch, watching a movie. Anna Karena with Keira Knightly and Jude Law. Desperate for a space without distractions, I lugged my laptop and charger to the basement. Upon sitting down at plastic folding table on top of a cheap stool that once was a dance prop, I began typing. That is when my other daughter stormed down the stairs, tore open the freezer, and grabbed a frozen ice cream cone. She made some attempt at conversation, but I snapped my fingers several times. That sent her bounding up the stairs, slamming the door behind her.

Finally, with peace, quiet, and solitude, I focused on finishing this post. 

Last night I experienced two vivid dreams. As of now, most details of the first one elude my memory. I can only recall that it felt like a pleasant nostalgia rooted in road trips to sandy beaches. Glimpses of family, mostly siblings and cousins, interlaced with passing roadside landscapes. But the images were fleeting, and I now wonder if my current opaque memory has more to do with the nature of the dream than my poor recollection of it. Either way, the first one faded to black, as the second came into sharp focus.

Now I stood with my wife in either a Walmart or Target. Our shopping complete, we headed with our cart to the nearest cash register. It was located away from the main entrance, however, there were no lines. Yet, as we approached, the cashier appeared occupied, and motioned us to the next register, which was across an aisle. Turning towards it, we noticed a crowd of people, intent on checking out, begin to gather around us. So, we raced towards the new register, managing to arrive first. But, no one was there, just a frozen monitor. We looked about us, and flagged down an employee. They mentioned that the systems were down, and refused to say or do anything else.

I was growing impatient, but also anxious. We were done shopping, and ready to pay, but there appeared no way of finishing up. Then I decided to make a run to the registers at the front of the store. There are always a bunch of them located there. My wife and I, now on a mission, darted up the aisle and around a corner. In front of us stood several cash register lanes, each one manned by an employee, but void of customers. Proud of myself, I pushed the cart towards the nearest one, my wife close behind. Chaos ensued. People began appearing, pushing their way to the registers. We arrived first, but became dismayed when the cashier said she could not check us out. Something was wrong with her station. Refusing to wait in line, I immediately turned from her, and moved on to the next one. The crowd of people had grown, and I found myself weaving around other customers, blazing a path for my wife to follow.

In the dream, a part of me knew I was being aggressive, bordering on rude. I asked myself if I should just wait in a line. But I wanted out, so I continued onward. That is when I determined, in my mind, that the self-checkout lines were probably empty, or at least more accessible. It seemed like a brilliant idea. So much so, that I smirked in the dream. Arrogantly, and with cart in hand, I leapt towards the shopping oasis of empty self-checkout registers I knew awaited me beyond the crowds. Sure enough, there they were. With a big smile on my face, proud of my clever insight, I led my wife up to an empty register. We began scanning our items. 

The system froze. The lights flickered.

Like a fool, I twisted the item around twenty different ways, running across the scanner twenty different times. Nothing. At some point, an employee walked by and explained that the systems were down. And, again, said and did nothing else. Now I was frustrated and felt an urge to just leave the store without my items. No one was willing to explain anything. No manager approached the customers. No announcements informed us of the next step. They did not deserve my business. Finally, I had decided to go. But first, I had to check my pockets for my phone and wallet, a habit I had learned the hard way.

Nothing. I began to worry. Perhaps the pile of clothes on the conveyor belt? Nothing. In the cart? Nothing. The cart had disappeared. Worse, so had my wife. Then the lights dimmed. Low. Enough that I could barely make out the floor.

Panic. But also dejection. And exhaustion. For some reason, the whole experience had sapped the energy out of me. It was time to exit the building.

In a final attempt to look for my wife, I turned toward the aisle leading up to the self checkout lane. It was brightly lit, while I stood in nightly shadows. And there he walked by, stopped, and turned to look at me. In the real world, he had been dead at least a year, maybe more—how sad that I cannot remember—and in the dream, I knew, for that reason, he should not have been standing there. But alas, there was no mistaking his face, shining in such vivid detail, as if my dream did not want me to doubt it. Indeed, in my mind, within the dream, I had a clear thought, “What is Father O'Brien doing here, he should be dead?”

For some reason, the revelation broke me. Perhaps the fear, anxiety, and desperation of leaving that store had overwhelmed my immunity to sudden shocks. Maybe it was the memory of this priest's role throughout my family's lives, especially my father's. Or, possibly it had something to do with Father Bill's presence during my own flirtation with the priesthood, nearly forty decades ago. 

All these things. None of them. I still do not know.

Truth be told, a part of me does not want to find out.

(Yet, a stronger part of me does, hence tonight's blog post.)

In the end, I fell to my knees and curled up into the fetal position beneath a nearby folding table. I closed my eyes. Darkness came.

Also the sensation that someone was gently holding me.

It was him. 

I did not have to see. I just knew.

Then I trembled and wept, until I awoke with eyes full of tears.

And a weight off my shoulders.

That was last night's dream. 

Revelations (Part 4)

British suffragette fighting for her rights.
Seriously, they were fearless.
Click on the image to find out.
 

I am not an historian. Not even an amateur one. Although I graduated with a BA in history (along with a minor in philosophy, and another in classical studies), I failed to pursue it at a graduate level. A masters and PhD in history demands an academic discipline and an intellectual will that I lack. In addition, post graduate work requires narrowing down one's area of interest. If you have been reading my blog, you know that I am incapable of focusing on a single subject matter for too long.

Unfortunately, I desire to know everything about anything, which means I end up learning far less than I want or need. It is frustrating and debilitating. And I still don't know what to do about it. 

I bring this up now, on Mother's Day, because the history of today is quite fascinating. It did not begin as a commercial endeavor, nor as a celebration of motherhood. It roots lie in pacifism and activism. I discovered this through an actual historian (be wary of those who speak about history, and never formally studied it, including me). Her name is Heather Cox Richardson and she wrote a piece about the founding of this holiday. Do not worry, it is short and non-academic; therefore, well worth the time and effort. 

For some time now, Ms. Richardson has been sharing this information every Mother's Day. But this year, she changed it up. Instead, she shared her memories of a motherly figure from her life. This part stood out to me (bold emphasis mine):

"When I once asked her what was the most important historical event in her lifetime, this woman who had lived through the Depression and both world wars answered without hesitation: 'the washing machine.' It had freed her and her mother from constant laundry. She could finally have some leisure time, which she spent listening to the radio and driving in cars with boys. Because her mother always needed her at home, it was not she, but all her younger siblings, who went to college. By the time Mrs. A. was an adult, she was certain she wanted no part of motherhood."

The bolded parts above struck me hard, because I have a pet peeve. Well, I have many, but when it comes to history, I have one in particular that really irks me. People, especially those peddling ideologies, want to reduce complex historical experiences into a handful of broad memes, or sell single simple big events, people, and ideas over the everyday lives of everyday people going navigating complexities of reality.

But here is evidence that ideas and laws and movements alone did not free this woman (and I would argue millions of others). It was the washing machine, among so many other inventions, that provided this woman, and many others, the opportunity to do more. In her case, she had time to have fun. Also notice how being the oldest daughter in such a large family prevented this woman from attending college. She was expected to care for her siblings. I doubt the eldest son would be forced to do the same. Finally, these events, among other things, led her down a path in which she decided not to have children.

And that is what I find so fascinating about history. Not the overblown generalizations and myths found in textbooks, or vomited from the mouths of politicians and pundits. Instead, the everyday thoughts and activities of ordinary people who end up being a part of extraordinary events, or whose memories shed light on the consequences of seemingly simple ideas and inventions. It is in the ugly and complex details that we discovery humanity. 

But, I can understand why people shun the messiness of history, besides the need to choose only those facts that reinforce their ideological assumptions. Getting in the weeds forces you to see otherwise sacred things as profane. Household chores did not always build character, especially for women. It prevented them from pursuing personal goals, or even contemplating the possibility. Inventions can make those chores easier, creating opportunities, but they can also reinforce stereotypes. For some reason, having washing machines did not inspire men in the household to start doing the laundry. Large traditional families are not always ideal, especially when burdens are placed on the older children. Finally, even the celebration of motherhood can have political roots. The early proponents became suffragists because they realized direct political power was necessary to affect change.

Confronted with historical experiences outside the narratives we have been fed so far, we are forced to ask difficult questions. What does it mean to be a mother? And a good one at that? Who can be considered a mother? How do we support mothers? And not just once a year? Can celebrating motherhood in the current way be harmful to women? And do men suffer, too? What happens when women are no longer allowed the choice of motherhood? Or even to define its meaning?

I just wish I was an actual historian, so that I could attempt to provide you informed answers, or educated guesses. At the very least, I wish I had the focus and will to find answers from people more intelligent than I am, and share them with you. Alas, this is best I can do. 

  

A Deep Breath (#22)

I made these (with a little help from my daughter).
Now I need to fill them.

On the first anniversary of this blog, I reached one hundred posts. Two years and a month  since that milestone, and I  am still shy of two hundred. After tonight, it will be seven posts short. This recent stretch of blogging has been a struggle. Too many insightful topics passed over.  Too many Sundays skipped. 

It would be easy to blame it all on a busy schedule. However, I accomplished more creatively when I was teaching full time and driving my young children to and from daycare. Both jobs required constant problem solving and improvisation. And during the first year of the pandemic, when I began this blog, my days were filled volunteering at the studio. I was on call, answering to the whims of a struggling dance studio director. In fact my worst, most demanding Nutcracker experience occurred that year. Despite the stress, I still produced regular blog posts. The demands of my current life are nothing like those of my past.

During those years, I was creating, but not for myself, and never to completion. While teaching, projects would draw initial excitement, like lighting a match--a brilliant illuminating display. Then it would move along and eventually smolder, until it became a fleeting trail of smoke. There were only so many days to achieve anything. And distractions would arise. The demands of students, parents, and headmasters became obstacles to work around. Or just throw your hands up and surrender. My teaching career began with full box of matches, some times it would light a great fire. But the years turned over on themselves, and the supply of matches dwindled. Then it became like starting a fire in the rain. By the end of my career, it was pouring, and the wind was blowing. Each day became another challenge. And the next day a reminder that nothing was solved the day before.

Then the fire went out. 

The dance studio became a second chance. Between stage managing the Nutcracker performances and annual recitals, and building props, I had returned to a period of creativity and problem solving. But when you answer to a perfectionist who does not listen to criticisms and critiques, and you watch your work constantly questioned and redesigned, no matter how well you started that fire, the elements will smother it, and put it out. My last Nutcracker experience happened during the first year of this blog. And I said not to the recital that followed. I said no to all of it. Finally, last summer, I yelled "no", over and over, on the phone.

I needed to say it, and he needed to hear it. 

Yet, it would be wrong of me not to take a moment to recognize the good, the beautiful, and the extraordinary that occurred throughout those careers. With regards to teaching, I  miss my co-workers. Our conversations were full of comedy and wit, wisdom and intelligence. Whether sitting around the teacher's table at lunch, or standing about the picnic tables at recess, I never tired of talking with them. As for stage managing, between the dance teachers and the other parent volunteers, my days were filled with insights and jokes, inspirations and lively chitchat. Together, we cheered on the dancers, and complained about everything else. Then came in the next day to do it all over again. I had made friends, again. 

Finally, through both roles, the teacher and the stage manager, I met so many young people. Oh, how they loved to try my patience, test my will, and accelerate my hearing loss with their constant yammering all at once. But I would endure it all in a heartbeat--though I would not do it all the same way--just to see them stand before the class and deliver a poem they had written, or watch them take the stage in costume and dance before a full house. 

To this day, these people have remained deep in my thoughts.

So, where does this all leave me? What is the point of blogging for three years, or even the purpose of tonight's post? Is all this nostalgia good for me? It is a puzzle that I need to solve, but I have no light, so I need to start a fire. However, I cannot recall how to ignite the kindling in front of me. Or maybe I do not want to remember? Solving the puzzle would help me. Yet, I am unable to see the pieces, or the photo on the box. 

(Sorry for mixing up these two metaphors. This is what happens when you binge watch two seasons of Only Murders in the Building, finish Life Below Zero: Next Generation, and start a season of Alone. Yes, in my mind, all three are connected and inspired that last paragraph.)

Hey, at least my raised beds are built, and the laundry is all done.

Oh, and I finished my one-hundred-and-ninety-third blog post before dinner.