My Buddy
Sat 04/22/06 at 4:40 pmA few days ago I was awakened by a ringing telephone. The Caller ID began to prepare me for the news. If the person on the other end was indeed Tina, then, it was more likely than not someone we both knew from our days at the firm was dead – it was just a question of whom. Sadly, I was right. I still find it hard to believe it was Ed. He was one of the most physically fit individuals I knew, having, for instance, participated in the La Luz Trail Run at 60. (Heck, he was the only lawyer I knew who had an undergraduate degree in physical education.) The last time I saw him, he was down to 5% body fat and playing golf everyday. That he suffered renal and congestive heart failure is just wrong.
For those of you who don’t already know, Ed was the second-named partner of Sager, Curran, Sturges & Tepper, P.C., the law firm I joined as an associate in 1987 after winding up my clerkship with Justice Mary Coon Walters. He signed his pleadings “Edward T. Curran,†and whenever he did so in my presence, I would hear in my head Tennessee Tuxedo declaring “Edward T. Curran†— which was funny because in contrast Ed had a high, almost lilting voice.
Ed was a good lawyer, and I learned much under his tutelage. You had to earn his respect. I can still remember what seemed like hours (no, now that I think about it, it was hours) sitting across from him being grilled about a particular case only eventually to be asked, “Kristine, did you even read the file?†The turning point for me came when I wrote a coverage opinion which he rejected out of hand, refusing to believe anyone would find insurance coverage under the circumstances. I rewrote it as he requested, but continued to maintain that I was right the first time around. We took the case to trial, and, though a valiant effort was made by the two of us, and I almost convinced the judge to use my version of a jury instruction, which, if read, might have saved the day, we lost for the reason I advised in the first place.
More important, Ed was my friend, or as he once referred to me (and I admit I melted when he did), my “buddy.†What’s unusual about that is I think I can safely say we were near polar opposites. Ed was 26 years my senior (we shared a birthday) and a conservative Republican Irish Catholic. He would, among other things, often make the most tongue-in-cheek sexist quips (and he’d come a long way as I was often told by others who had known him “back then†when such utterances weren’t tongue-in-cheek). I used to say that with Ed, the symbols contradicted. I can honestly say that I never felt he treated me as anything other than a colleague and an equal. Moreover, he was one of the kindest (dare I say, sweetest?) human beings ever, and I adored him.
Ed’s obituary underscores his passion for Notre Dame Football. I, too, can attest to this passion. Indeed, one day we went out for lunch and, before returning to the office, we stopped by the house of one of his friends so he could show me the cap that then-Notre Dame Coach Lou Holtz had worn when he coached my alma mater’s Golden Gophers.
Ed retired shortly before I made partner in 1993. He soon after announced the move to Arizona. We saw each other sporadically after that. I’m pretty sure the last time I saw him was in 1996. I had moved back to Minneapolis and he and his wonderful (and I think it’s somewhat accurate to say, long-suffering) wife Barbara came up to attend an Elder Hostel. Barbara had grown up in Minneapolis and I remember spending a wonderful day touring the Twin Cities in search of her roots, including the Hill House in St. Paul. We may have spoken by phone a couple times after that and then, as is so often the case, just lost track of one another.
Last week, the Bar Bulletin contained a Clerk’s Certificate with Ed’s address and phone number. I’m still not sure why, as it really wasn’t new. Nonetheless, it prompted me to want to call and check in. I got as far as actually picking up the phone, but stopped short of dialing the number. I’m not sure if I would have had an opportunity to talk to Ed had I completed the call, but at least it would have still been a possibility.
Unfortunately, my health precludes a trip to the memorial service in Arizona, but my thoughts will be there. I miss my buddy.
next post: The Guthrieprevious post: The Raven
The Raven
Sun 01/29/06 at 10:40 pm
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On this day in 1845, the New York Evening Mirror first published Edgar Allen Poe’s narrative poem, The Raven. Illustration for the French Edition by Édouard Manet |
previous post: JANUARY THIRTEENTH, 1996*
JANUARY THIRTEENTH, 1996*
Fri 01/13/06 at 11:40 amOne last tug on the left glove, and I step back into it. This time I’m on the right side – well, almost. Two feet of storm. Still cold, but I don’t feel it, breathe it. Come outside, what do you think? Maybe. I don’t smell it here. Rain, sometimes. And, it’s never too cold. I look down. The eyes have always been mine. The shadow has always been I. The coat has always been mine, but rarely worn. Not my landscape. Nor mine. Frozen vomit. That first night, just across the way, she held my hair. Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. Later, we betrayed each other with private kisses. The squeaky crunch of boots on storm. I reach the crossing. “But you said you would come with me.†“I cannot.†So, I step back into it, across it. I look out and know, for the first time, the landscape that has always been mine. I step into it. And God remembered . . . Do Lord, Oh, do Lord, oh, do remember me.
* I wrote the foregoing 10 years ago as an entry for a “write like William Faulkner†contest. Back then a friend, who agreed that while in the spirit of the contest, thought the entry was too serious to be considered a serious contender.
next post: The Ravenprevious post: Angst
Angst
Sat 12/03/05 at 9:17 amI woke up feeling anxious about the blog, but that’s easily fixed. Unless I have an overwhelming need to post an entry, I’m taking the month off to unfoul my nest and enjoy the holidays. Later.
next post: JANUARY THIRTEENTH, 1996*previous post: Been There, But I Have Way Too Many T-Shirts
Been There, But I Have Way Too Many T-Shirts
Sat 11/05/05 at 12:16 pmToday’s Writer’s Almanac Reports that:
On this day in 1930, a Swedish newspaper reporter telephoned Sinclair Lewis to tell him that he was the first American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, for his novel Main Street (1920). Lewis thought the caller was making a practical joke and began to imitate the man’s accent. But it was not a joke. Lewis was, in fact, the first American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.
previous post: Works for Me
Works for Me
Fri 10/28/05 at 7:33 pm next post: Been There, But I Have Way Too Many T-Shirts
previous post: Message to my Loyal Readers
Message to my Loyal Readers
Thu 10/13/05 at 1:36 pmHail and well met to those of you who may have wandered by to see if there’s anything new this week. Alas, no. I’ve been feeling a bit puny for a couple weeks and haven’t had the energy to put together much in the way of posts. It’s just as well, given the metaphoric orange barrels dotting the site during the transition to the new publishing application. My beloved blogmeister, mjh, is in the midst of implementing my blog happiness list. I’m quite pleased.
In the meantime, thought you might be interested to know, I heard from a fellow at Dell yesterday, name Michael – well not THAT Michael, but we had a nice chat anyway. See October 4, 2005 Post. He’s going to make sure my account gets properly credited, and he’s sending me a system battery. I’m not sure if I’ll get charged for the battery, but shipping will be free. I’ll keep you posted on any further developments. (Pun intended.)
next post: Works for Meprevious post: We Interrupt This Blog . . .
We Interrupt This Blog . . .
Tue 10/04/05 at 2:18 pmSome of you may remember a great movie that came out nearly 30 years ago called Network starring William Holden, Faye Dunaway, Robert Duvall, Peter Finch, and others. Peter Finch portrays an aging news anchor who, fed up with the current state of affairs, goes berserk during a broadcast. He encourages his television audience to get up off their seats, go to their windows, open them up, and begin yelling, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!†The camera shifts to the network muckety-mucks who are watching the broadcast. Once of them goes over and opens a window through which can be heard the sounds of voices chanting, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore.â€
Some years later I met Ray whose motto was “I will never be a victim.†He never accepted less than was his due in any situation. He did it nicely, rationally, and firmly. I have tried to live by his example. As a result, I have endeavored to rectify, and have often succeeded in rectifying, many unfair situations for myself, and just as often, others — though there was that one time that the IRS agent hung up on me (and I was being really nice). Threatening class action lawsuits has been particularly effective — especially since I knew of what I spoke having defended a couple of them. I’m proud to say I have been an example to my friends and family in this regard. Call center folks, on the other hand, think I have entirely too much time on my hands. I can almost hear them muttering under their breath, “Get a life.â€
This was going to be a post much different from the one you are actually reading. The last two weeks have been particularly frustrating, and so I started an entry wherein I planned to tell you in great detail about the mix up with my Dell order, the lack of problem-solving skills on the part of the cable guy (“I don’t know what to tell you ma’am. It should work; I hooked up the box.â€), the notice from a collection agency because a healthcare provider had failed to update information I had dutifully provided to them, and the software program I could not install no matter what I tried (including, but not limited to, reading the “Installation Instructions and†the “read me†file, and checking (and installing) the “patch†program provided on the website. By and large I got every thing worked out. Even so, I don’t feel like talking or writing about incompetence anymore, even when, in retrospect some of the stories are amusing in a twisted sort of way.
The latest Dell fiasco has put me over the edge. I went down fighting, at least. In the last couple weeks, I have made fourteen “from scratch†phone calls – that means cycling through fourteen interminable voice menus – simply dialing “0†out of the gate no longer works, it just makes the main menu start over again. Two calls ended in hang ups on the part of the sales representatives, two ended in disconnects, and one ended in an especially annoying busy signal. I spoke to seven sales representatives, one sales specialist, three entry level customer care representatives, an extension supervisor, a floor supervisor (impersonating a manager after being told I expected to be speaking to a manager), a customer care supervisor, and, finally, a manager. I left two voice mails, both of which remain unreturned. No one I talked to listened to what I had to say. I finally asked the last couple of folks to repeat back to me what I had just told them until they finally got it right. In the end, the last guy (the manager) quit even pretending he wanted to help resolve the issue, and I just quit asking for help. Instead, for the first time ever, I’m packing up and returning a perfectly wonderful, reasonably priced, editor’s choice technological device along with many cool accessories. I’ll sell my stock. I’ve prepared, and mailed, a six-page single-spaced letter to the Executive Support Team (an entity so secret even Dell supervisors and managers don’t have a telephone number for it) explaining why I am severing ties with a company from which I have personally purchased, among other things, 3 pretty much state-of-the-art desktops and which I have recommended to friends and family over the years.
I am so disgusted by this latest episode, that I’m not only done with Dell, I’m done with them all. I’ll pay the stealth handling charge that gets added at the end of an online order for which I have been promised “free shipping.†I’ll pay the “office co-pay†my health care insurer charges for a lab test (and try not to think/care about the folks who don’t realize they don’t owe one and for whom fifteen bucks matters). I’ll meekly accept the pronouncement, “Well whoever you spoke to was mistaken,†when, in anticipation of a problem I’ve actually called customer service before making a trip to the brick and board store. I bet none of you ever thought you’d hear/read me say the bastards got me down. But they did. I’m still mad as hell; I just don’t have the time or energy to verbally strong arm people into keeping their companies’ promises anymore.
Postscript
So, I’m just putting the finishing touches on this entry when I hear the phone ring. As is often the case these days, I can’t find the phone in time to answer it before voicemail kicks in. I wait a bit, and check caller id. One of my guys, who, like me, has severe COPD had called. In my memory, he’s never left a message before, but this time I have a voice mail. Of course, I immediately imagined something bad had happened. On the contrary, he told me I didn’t need to call him back, but he just wanted to let me know that because of my encouragement, he met with his health care provider who, in turn had agreed to contact his recalcitrant insurer. He had just received word the insurer would pay for a new drug that up to now been he’d been paying for out of his own pocket because it hadn’t made the approved list or whatever. He’ll save $132 a month. In his words, he had “won that battle,†and thought I’d like to know.
next post: Message to my Loyal Readersprevious post: Imagine
Imagine
Mon 09/12/05 at 12:37 pm.jpg)
previous post: It’s Only Words
It’s Only Words
Thu 08/11/05 at 10:52 amJust to clarify, I suffer from writer’s malaise as opposed to writer’s block. That is, I know precisely what I want to write — at least for the next hundred pages or so. I am simply unable to summon the energy required to translate the stuff of which my novel is made into written form. As a general rule, I am a product, not a process, person. It seems, however, that the novel is too big a product for me to produce of a piece. In part, then, these Walking Raven entries will serve as a way for me to marshal my thoughts and research about a character or other aspect of the narrative to produce smaller, more manageable pieces. This exercise may spoil a few punch lines in the novel for those of you who can still remember one day from the next, but for whatever reason, I seem to have this need to tell you the story of the story before I can write the rest of the story. And so, as one of my law school professors was wont to say, “Let’s begin, please.” And we might as well begin at the beginning (well, nearly the beginning).
Aside from a brief stint as a teen-aged poet, I produced relatively little by way of the written word that was of any consequence well into my twenties, notwithstanding that I was an English major. Papers were agony and usually turned out badly. (What’s the written equivalent for “tongue-tied?”) Only after my first year in a master’s English program did I find my voice for scholarly (as opposed to creative) writing. I coulda’ been a contendah in academia. Instead, I went to law school and entered private practice. The mid-80s to the mid-90s are a blur of work (and golf) and very little else.
My biggest regret during those years was that I virtually stopped reading for pleasure. I am ashamed to say I can probably count on one hand, and certainly two, the number of books I read during that time. I did, however, have ample opportunity to hone my writing skills. I wrote literally hundreds of supporting memoranda and trial and appellate briefs. By the time I retired from the practice of law, I felt fairly comfortable stringing words together in sentences and paragraphs. To have the words accurately communicate what I want to say, though, continues to be a long, and often painful, process. I’m thankful that, unlike some writers, I can use my computer for most of the process. Before I had access to a word processing program, my paper needs required the death of way too many trees. If I can really get this together, perhaps they will not have all died in vain.
next post: Imagineprevious post: It Isn’t Whether You Win or Lose, It’s . . .
It Isn’t Whether You Win or Lose, It’s . . .
Sun 01/09/05 at 1:34 pm
Greetings from my aerie (lair) in arbitrary spacetime January 9, 2005, Albuquerque, New Mexico. This blog entry is my first in awhile, but one I hope will prove to be the first of many that will evolve into an ongoing online discussion of a statement that occupies my thoughts nearly every I sit down to write anything, to wit:
There are no synonyms.
In less than an hour, an event will begin. At its conclusion a few hours from now, I would like to be able to say, “We (being the Minnesota Vikings) beat the Packers at Green Bay.” I also would not mind saying, “We won the game.” Given what has so often occurred before, I might even be satisfied with, “The Packers beat us at Green Bay.” What I decidedly do not want to have to say is, “We lost the game.”
So, there you have it. Talk amongst yourselves.
next post: It’s Only Wordsprevious post: Untwining the Inextricable
Untwining the Inextricable
Tue 06/29/04 at 11:14 amWhen I asked Mr. Edgewise to set up this blog, I did so with the expectation I would post an entry every week (or so). After all, I have the time to write. I also have plenty to “say.” Even if I don’t sit down with any specific expectations, all I have to do is start typing and something generally comes to mind. For instance, I just had the urge to explore the nature of the meaning of the term “say.” BRB. Okay, according to the Microsoft Encarta Dictionary, the use of the term “say” in connection with a written form of expression generally indicates the writing “conveys information” — more specifically, “substantial or significant” information. Otherwise, what’s written might be described as really not “saying” much of anything. Along the same lines, why do we say we can “hear” ourselves think?
That said (as my intent was to convey something), I’ve been asking myself, why has it been nearly two weeks, three, a month, now two months since last I posted a blog entry? And then I “heard” a voice inside my head say, “you don’t smoke anymore.” I used to smoke. A lot. I quit (for the most part) on Monday, October 21, 1996 at 10:21 a.m. I quit because I couldn’t breathe. For those of you who don’t already know, I have since been diagnosed with severe COPD — classic panlobular emphysema to be exact. In other words, as a practical matter, smoking is simply no longer an option.
If I still could sit here in front of my monitor and keyboard and suck down one Lucky Strike after another, the words would come, not in fits and starts, but in a steady, unbroken stream. And after the flood of words, there would be uninterrupted hours crafting each paragraph, sentence, phrase, and word choice — rebuilding the thoughts on the other side of consciousness. These days, I’m lucky to sustain, contain for more than a few sentences before I become distracted, restless. And then I have to stop, because well, my head might explode. Sometimes I get back to it in an hour, sometimes days, sometimes never.
Science tells us that nicotine enables users to focus — that is, until nicotine is withheld. Then focus immediately shifts to discerning when the next opportunity to feed those receptors might arise. And a voice I equate with Audrey II’s voice in Little Shop of Horrors emanates from those receptors. It begins with a barely audible whisper and builds to a resounding, reverberating “FEED ME!” And it’s not just the nicotine. It’s the smoke filling the lungs, riding through the central nervous system and binding, at last, with those wide-mouthed famished, voracious receptors. And those receptors, once opened never close. Mostly these days, they’re rather peckish, unless and until I sit down to write. Consequences.
Maybe this knowing will enable me better to keep the nicotine demons at bay. If not, well, Ritilin anyone? Or better yet — would someone please perfect virtual smoking.
next post: It Isn’t Whether You Win or Lose, It’s . . .previous post: Happy Bloomsday
Happy Bloomsday
Wed 06/16/04 at 7:41 am next post: Untwining the Inextricableprevious post: I See Said the Blind[person]
I See Said the Blind[person]
Thu 04/29/04 at 1:26 pmNow that I actually have my blog, I’m even more aware of internal and external stimuli that I could turn into blog entries. Indeed, I’ve not sat down to write for a while because different ideas have been falling over themselves in my mind to the point that I was overwhelmed with the thought of picking out just one of them and seeing where it goes. This morning, though, I’d pretty much decided where, at least, to begin. And then, a few sentences into this composition, I realize I’ve written something that takes me in an entirely new direction. To wit, why did I just write the phrase “seeing where it goes?” The eyes are unnecessary for thought. See, e.g., The Iliad, The Odyssey, and Paradise Lost. The tag I just used, “see, e.g.,” I wrote hundreds of times during my life as a lawyer. Legal briefs follow the rules set forth in The Bluebook: A Uniform System of Citation. According to said same (I’m in lawyer mode now), using “[s]ee” means the “cited authority [that follows] directly states or clearly supports the proposition.” Adding “,e.g.” indicates that “other authorities also state, support, . . . the proposition but that citation to them would not be helpful or is not necessary.” Id. (briefspeak for “ibidem” or “ibid.”).
Sight is unnecessary to write. I could type this entry with my eyes closed. Indeed, the various implements associated with the task of writing are unnecessary. Included within the many definitions of write or writing is “to produce or be engaged in producing a poem, book, play, story, or article: give literary or journalistic form to a conception, plot, or happening.” See Webster’s Third New International Dictionary (1976 ed.). No one suggests that Milton didn’t wrote Paradise Lost even though one or the other of his daughters actually wrote it. More specifically, then, Milton prescribed while one or the other of his daughters transcribed. “Pre-,” however, means “earlier than: prior to: before.” Mirriam-Webster Online. So maybe it is more accurate to say (I mean write) (don’t get me started) that Milton described Paradise Lost, since “de-” means “to reduce.” Id. Except, one doesn’t necessarily need words to write; i.e., another definition of write is “to take part in or bring about (something worthy of recording) . . . the Colorado River has been writing a record of history in the earth’s crust.” Hot-metal Magic. Webster’s Third.
So, the writing of a thought occurs sometime before it is either prescribed or described. The writing, however, appears to end before the thought is transcribed, as “trans-” means “on or to the other side of.” Mirriam-Webster. So when does the seeing of the thought take place? Well, I guess that depends on however one understands the title of the first chapter in my Freshman English textbook, “[h]ow can I know what I think until I see what I say?”
next post: Happy Bloomsdayprevious post: Why am I here?
Why am I here?
Wed 04/21/04 at 5:42 pmOkay, I’m going to try to recreate the process I went through in creating this latest entry. Most of what I consider to be blog-worthy thoughts fall far short of the epiphany mark for me. Some merely unfold gently and calmly in my brain. Others explode with what Darcy calls BFOs (blinding flashes of the obvious) — those thoughts that result in a figurative, sometimes even literal, slap of the forehead. Epiphanies, though, travel like a lightening strike from my brain into my solar plexus and ignite me inside out. Epiphanies are deep red with pink around the edges.
In the early days I’d walk them off. In my teens, I’d fight fire with fire and smoke. In my later teens, I’d douse them with scotch, et al. Then it was back to just cigarettes. As my brother once quipped, “We had a cigarette for every emotion.” Epiphanies though meant several cigarettes in fairly rapid succession. Now, I let spacetime take care of them (though ice cream does help).
Before getting to this morning’s epiphanic moment, I need to provide some context. Especially during my life as an attorney, I would (more often than I care to admit) find myself arising from my desk, wandering into the hallway, and stopping abruptly, usually just in front of my legal assistant’s cubicle, and questioning, out loud, “Who am I, and why am I here?” The question for me was triggered by the fact that I had quite simply forgotten why I found myself standing in the hallway. My legal assistant though, never one to let any question, even a rhetorical one, go unanswered, would usually say, “You are C. Kristine Osnes, Esquire, and you are here because you love the law.”
First, I’m sure it does not escape you, as it does not escape me, that I just characterized what is so often identified as an individual’s life purpose as a rhetorical question. Second, while I did, and do, love the chase for the ever-just-elusive seamless web that can be spun out of legal argument and interpretation; I was there, more and more, for the money. I finally quit when I realized no one could pay me enough to do it any more. (Well that, and the fact I didn’t have kids to put through college).
Anyway, given that for me, wondering who I am goes hand in hand with wondering why I am here, I sat down at my computer this morning thinking a companion piece to my “Who I am” entry was in order. I deliberately chose to entitle my previous entry as an affirmative statement. I figured that one out quite some time ago. Knowing who I am wasn’t the problem. It was being able to be who I am. I am grateful my life has evolved to a point where that is, indeed, possible.
Why I am here still poses a question, but not one that troubles me much anymore. Here is neither the place nor the time (spacetime, again) to detail my search for the meaning of, or even if there is a meaning to, my life or anyone else’s. If ever I actually finish my novel, whose working title is The First Voice, a good deal of my search will be recorded therein. In brief, writing and thinking about The First Voice led me to research the concept of sentience — thinking the term could serve as a more elegant-sounding synonym for the concept of self-awareness. (I sure thought that’s what Jean Luc and the others meant whenever they encountered a new life form.) According to Merriam-Webster Online, however, sentience means “feeling or sensation as distinguished from perception and thought.” In contrast, self-awareness means “an awareness of one’s own personality or individuality.”
Though controversy exists as to whether other creatures or objects are, or can become, self-aware, ultimately, I agree with those who have concluded self-awareness must, by definition, include an awareness of death — especially an awareness of one’s own death. Further discussion of this aspect of self-awareness, however, can wait for another day. For my present purposes, it suffices that self-awareness means we tend to question our place in the world, the galaxies, the universe(s). Surely there must be more to it than this; surely there must be a reason for being; surely there must be others out there. These days, I find I’m spending a lot of time thinking about Stephen Hawking’s supposition in this regard. He speculates:
[T]here is a very low probability either of life developing on other planets or of that life developing intelligence. Because we claim to be intelligent, though perhaps without much ground, we tend to see intelligence as an inevitable consequence of evolution. However, one can question that. It is not clear that intelligence has much survival value. Bacteria do very well without intelligence and will survive us if our so-called intelligence causes us to wipe ourselves out in a nuclear war. So as we explore the galaxy we may find primitive life, but we are not likely to find beings like us.
The Universe in a Nutshell, p. 171.
In this context, then, I closed my eyes a while ago and asked, why am I here? In response, I heard in my mind’s ear, I think therefore I am. I am. The [present] first person singular of [the infinitive] “to be.” I be. No, I am. Why am I here? No, why I be here? And then I experienced the lightening followed by the spreading warmth of realization — what Virginia Woolf labeled the moment. What Joyce calls an epiphany. And on the heels of the moment, came the struggle to translate the mindspeak engendered by the epiphany into a language others might understand. I’m not yet fluent enough in the English language to prevail in that endeavor. Here, though, is as much of the after-the moment-process as I can remember, as well as what I did to augment the memories as I wrote this account.
The first thing I remember is thinking of the French version of Descartes’ theory. Je pense, donc je suis. I also remarked to myself that nothing gets lost in the translation. My painful study of French required me to be learn about infinitives, tenses, and regular and irregular verbs. So I already knew that the infinitive of I am is to be. I knew to be was an irregular verb because instead of I be, the present first person singular form is I am. Just for fun, I looked up the term infinitive. According to good old M-W, the use of the term as a noun means “a verb form normally identical in English with the [present] first person singular that performs some functions of a noun and at the same time displays some characteristics of a verb and that is used with to (as in ‘I asked him to go’) except with auxiliary and various other verbs (as in ‘no one saw him leave‘).” (Emphasis in the original.) My epiphany left me with the following questions: (1) Why was to be an irregular verb? (2) Where did am come from? (3) Could I think of any other verbs where the irregular form of the present first person singular means something different from what would have been the regular form of the present first person singular? Perhaps someday I’ll take the time to try and find the answers.
At present, however, I (and probably you) have pretty much lost sight of what any of this discussion has to do with why I am, or we or you (singularly and plurally) or they are, or he, she, or it is, here. I am certain that understanding the distinction between aming and being in the context of the two primary questions with which I started out this morning meant something important earlier today. I am less certain at this hour. Maybe it’s as simple as I am not am unless I think, but I can be and not think. I guess that really only works if you agree with Descartes instead of Popeye. Still, even if Hawking is right, and we are simply an evolutionary fluke of the universe and a mere blip in spacetime such that our only reason for being is that we be, I like the opportunity I’ve got to be who I am.
next post: I See Said the Blind[person]previous post: Who I am
Who I am
Mon 04/19/04 at 9:12 amSo, if the Walking Raven is my Muse and not my nom de plume, you may ask, as the Caterpillar did to Alice, “Who [am I]?” My name is C. Kristine Osnes, formerly known as Kristy, Toolah (to my Grandma Barbara), Krissy (to a very chosen few). I am now known as Kris, Kristine, C. Kristine, cko (or a combination thereof to most); Kris-E (to mjh’s chosen one); Krisofer (to my Father and Bonnie); Krusteen (to my brother); the Shopping Devil (to my brother-in-law); Bubba (to Christine and her circle); Leany, Leanage, Ay Matey, Little Filly, or Brave Buckaroo (to my sister); Auntie-Kris-Momma (to Milly, my cocker spaniel niece); Bug or Bear (often to Darcy); and finally, Tinky Winky, Tinky, or Tink (even, sometimes, to myself).
I have been different super heros, The Lone Ranger, Robin Hood, the Supreme Commander of toy soldiers, an artist, a student, a cook, a typesetter, a scholar, a golfer, a gamer, an attorney, a wannabe dweeb, of counsel, lead counsel, the codifier of rules.
Now, at last, for the most part, I just am. Which is really all I’ve ever wanted to be. Oh, and I am JEDI (at least to those of you who know the area code and prefix).
next post: Why am I here?previous post: The Tenth Muse
The Tenth Muse
Thu 04/15/04 at 3:32 pmIn his “Welcome to Edgewise” email, my buddy Mark announced that I would write under the nom de plume of “walking raven.” That’s not exactly right. Mark and I had talked about blogs in the past, and he’d sent me notice when his got up and running. I expressed some interest in having a blog my damn self. Then I sent him what became my December 24 entry and told him that was the kind of stuff I wanted to put on my blog. He posted it, I think on his blog — sort of fuzzy on the exact chain of events. For those of you who don’t know me or weren’t raised in the Midwest, for nearly 50 years now, I have lived a shame-based life to the fullest — though in the last few years I’ve occasionally permitted, or even took actions that resulted in, attention being drawn to myself. I know what some of you are thinking — and you’re right — thank god for Paxil. Before then, public attention of any sort was strictly on an as-needed basis, and never without discomfort. So, I’m sure you can see why I couldn’t possibly register my given name as a domain name — no www.mjhinton.net with a comin’ at you digital photo for me, no sir! And then James Joyce came to my rescue. I had an epiphany. Would I have had an epiphany if I’d not read James Joyce and learned about epiphanies? I guess I wouldn’t have had an epiphany because I didn’t know what such a thing was. But would I have had something like an epiphany? Well, that’s a blog entry for another day. Anyway, the background leading up to my epiphany started with a childhood fascination with the ravens that appeared with regularity in the books I read. I have no awareness of ever seeing a raven in real life. I know now there are raven in Minnesota and Iowa, but when I was growing up, ravens and crows were just crows.
Then, one day I came across the most incredible painting in the form of a blank card:
And I had a moment of recognition. I was staring at my Muse.* Why this creature is my Muse, I don’t know. I just know that it is. The picture is by a German artist named Hurzlmeier Rudi and it’s called simply Kraehe, German for “Crow.” So, I asked a birder if she could explain the difference to me between ravens and crows. She immediately quipped, “it’s a matter of opinion.” Apparently, this particular question is a birder joke. When she realized I actually wanted a serious answer to my question, we did some research. From what we could glean from Sibley’s et al., it boils down to a difference in their calls. In addition, ravens soar, crows flap. Then, for Christmas, my partner Darcy got me the Navajo carving of the Walking Raven with purple sneakers. Shortly thereafter I recorded my first blog entry. In the ensuing days, I went on line and learned that the domain name “walking crow” had been reserved, but “walking raven” had not. The rest, as they say, is history.
* For those of you who, like me, might need a refresher, in Greek mythology, the Muses were nine goddesses, daughters of the god Zeus, king of the gods, and of Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory. The Muses were believed to inspire all artists, especially poets, philosophers, and musicians. By late Roman times (3rd century to 5th century), each Muse was believed to preside over a particular art: Calliope was the muse of epic poetry; Clio of history; Euterpe of lyric poetry sung to the accompaniment of the flute; Melpomene of tragedy; Terpsichore of choral songs and the dance; Erato of love poetry sung to the accompaniment of the lyre; Polyhymnia of sacred poetry; Urania of astronomy; and Thalia of comedy. Microsoft Encarta Reference Library 2003. © 1993-2002 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved. next post: Who I am
previous post: Blog-worthiness II
Blog-worthiness II
Mon 04/05/04 at 5:46 pmSometimes when I have what I now consider to be a blog-worthy thought (because such things as blogs exist) I start to compose a blog-entry in my head. I think in words — at least when I am aware that I am thinking I think in words. There was a time when I spent so much of my time typing that my thoughts became a marquee streaming across the inside of my forehead. I would literally “type” them on my platonic keyboard letter by letter. It was with some amazement (and suspicion) that I learned other people do not, apparently, think in words but in some other way. No one has quite been able to explain what that is like. I’ve tried to imagine what it must be like to have unspoken concepts or images floating around in one’s head that every once in awhile get snared and translated.
These days, my word thoughts are no longer typed. Rather, I tell them to myself. And sometimes, as stated above, a blog-worthy thought emerges from this running commentary. When it does, I stop and examine it. Often it’s a question that comes to [my] mind. Occasionally, it’s a declarative statement. Other times, the world or individuals in the world supply me with blog-worthy ideas, like the fortune that became my January 25th entry. These are the bits and pieces I sometimes jot down on paper or record as a voice memo to save for further examination at a more convenient time.
A few years ago at an Urban Outfitters I came across a wonderful green notebook with ruled pages, about 4″x 6″ in size. It had a ribbon of elastic to keep it closed. I purchased that wonderful book and carried it with my whereever I went, and every once in a while had the wherewithal to jot down thoughts or phrases that I found of interest — though less than 20 pages over nearly as many years have even made it that far. Recently, I learned that this notebook is a knockoff of a Moleskine notebook, “the legendary notebook of European artists and intellectuals, from . . . Ferdinand Celine to Andre Breton to Earnest Hemingway.” Moleskine products are being manufactured again by an Italian company, Modo et Modo. I ran across a variety of Moleskine notebooks in the Satellite Cafe on Central Avenue in Albuquerque, New Mexico a while back. Of course, I had to have one (Earnest Hemingway, after all), though I’ll probably never write in it as my green knockoff still has about 80 blank ruled pages. (You too can have one by visiting www.modoemodo.com.)
In any event, having this blog might just inspire me to give some context to these few pages of words and phrases, and let you all know some of what it is I’ve spent the last twenty years talking to myself about.
next post: The Tenth Museprevious post: Blog-worthiness
Blog-worthiness
Tue 03/30/04 at 3:47 pmOkay, it’s about time to do something with this weblog (hereinafter “‘blog”) my dear friend Mark has agreed to host for me. For the most part, I wanted a ‘blog (hereinafter “blog”) because I wanted a blog. And, of course because Mark had a blog. Though I might have that reversed. In other words, at the outset I may have wanted a blog solely because Mark had a blog. Actually, Mark has more than one blog, but I do not have blog envy. One blog is enough for me because my blog is, as described, a “miscellany;” i.e., a collection of writings on various subjects. As I understand it, a real blog should have frequent, though not necessarily, daily additions. So I’m off to a pretty non-blog start. Most days I have at least one blog-worthy thought. Trouble is, I forget that thought much more often than I remember to jot it down or speak it into my handy dandy Sony digital recorder, or my cell phone (that sports a voice memo function), or my Dell Axim that theoretically enables me either to record my thought (haven’t yet mastered that feature) or, not so theoretically, use the stylus to write or tap it into written symbols. And see, here comes my blog-worthy thought of the day. If I put a thought on paper, or encode it onto a computer monitor, or for that matter speak it out loud, does it become matter? We only have matter and energy or anti-matter and — is there such a thing as anti-energy? Apparently there is. The first article that crops up after a Google search of the term “antienergy,” advises that “[c]hange requires motion. No motion, no change. Motion requires energy. No energy, no motion. We postulate here the existence of antienergy which makes time go backwards.” (Who says Merlin was nuts.) [For a complete rundown on this postulation, here's the link: www.uforg.asn.au/articles/timetravel.html]. Getting back to my first question, when, if ever, does a thought make the transition from energy to matter? If I’m not mistaken, Stephen Hawking has a running bet with somebody about what happens if a copy of the Encyclopedia Britannica gets tossed into a black hole . . .
next post: Blog-worthiness IIprevious post: Your fortune for today…
Your fortune for today…
Sun 01/25/04 at 9:55 amRemember why you are here.
next post: Blog-worthinessprevious post: Wired
Wired
Wed 12/24/03 at 3:56 pmToday is Christmas Eve. I’m not much for holidays. My favorite Christmas is still the one I spent alone in my North-facing, forth-floor walk up tucked just behind the Guthrie Theatre, eating Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup with saltine crackers and watching football. Even so, I have strived over the years to provide a haven for my friends who find themselves with no family plans for Christmas Eve. I make Norwegian Chili (to distinguish from New Mexico Chili), posole (hominy, red chili, and pork), and fudge. Everybody else can bring whatever they want. So, today I was making my Norwegian Chili, and I loaded my fabulous Christmas CD called “An Organ Christmas.” When we were kids, my brother played the organ at Trinity Lutheran in Madelia, and he was really quite good. So, when “Angels we have heard on high” came blasting forth from the stereo, I realized, if I closed my eyes I could be as good as back at Trinity on Christmas Eve for the candlelight service. And so I’ve decided that music is the highest, and, first art form.
I mean music, in and of itself, can evoke such clear memory and emotions of past times. (Though I wonder if music is truly an international language such that the same emotions are felt by people unaccustomed to the music of various cultures.) And that line of thought got me to thinking about the rumored “music of the spheres.” And that of course reminded me that music, like supposedly everything else is “just” mathematics. Like our computers. 0s and 1s. And then I thought, maybe music so moves us because it is actually wired into our DNA, in other words, we knew music before we, cosmically speaking, knew ourselves. So it lives in our DNA while so much of art is because of our sentience that hasn’t gotten coded yet. And then I thought, if music is mathematics, and music evokes emotions, then maybe emotions are simply mathematics, and so why isn’t someone trying to discover the mathematical formula for love, or sadness, or grief, or joy. Then again, maybe they are. And if they succeed, will we need music anymore?
next post: Your fortune for today…