Sound from the past

SOUND FROM THE PAST

I was walking down the alley heading towards Damen, this morning, on my way to Subway for lunch, when I heard a sound that came returned from fifty or more years. The noise set in motion ideas I have not used since I was a kid.

Ahead of me, heading north on Damen, was a guy peddling a bicycle; each time his right pedal came up the arm of the crank hit the chain guard–clack, clack…. His chain guard was out of alignment or the crank was bent, probably the former, a kid with a bike knew to look at both.

My first bicycle released me from the walking radius of our house; for the same energy and time I could be two or three miles away. Streets that I scarcely knew were navigated and memorized. Kids that I knew from Sunday School were seen in their own neighborhoods. It was liberating to explore and to know that every day that I wished there would be new adventures on my own time and without supervision.

Without supervision meant going down to the River, to the Falls, to a couple of the creeks that ran into the upper-Niagara; and of course the gorge and rapids that began several miles downstream from Niagara Falls. I could go down the road that led to the dock and cradle of the Maid of the Mist ; there were two named “I” and “II”. The boats that took tourists around the basin below the Falls, exposing them to the spray and mist that always is found at the always hidden base of the Horseshoe Falls, the rocks and rivulets that at the foot of the American Falls. The basin was safe for a boat even though it might not seem like it. The surface showed welling in a dozen different places, the effect of millions of tons of water that flowed in streams under the surface and were deflected from the river bottom.

The sound of the Falls, constant every hour of every day. I would lay in bed at night and listen, everyone in town could. The low roar that was comforting rather than annoying or frightening; the constant in the ever changing life of a boy.

It was a competitive to see if anyone could peddle his bike up from the Maid of the Mist dock up to the top of the cliff; I can’t remember anyone being strong enough or heavy enough to push the pedals against the slope of that switch-back road. It was only after bikes with gears came along that anyone could do other than walk his bicycle up that two hundred foot deep gorge.

My grandfather told me of his bicycle as a young man growing up in England in the time of Victoria. Every Saturday night he would take his machine apart, clean it with kerosene and put it back together again. I remember him saying that the frame was wood, but I don’t know whether I remember that correctly or have it mixed up with something else; it was more than half a century ago that he told me that story.

My bicycle came with one of those flat wrenches with gaps for each size of bolt, it was all that I needed except for a tube patching kit. I took the front wheel apart and explored what ball bearings did and how they lay in the race, matched by the opposite race. Bicycle chains have a link that can be undone in order to put the chain on without removing the rear wheel. The stop there was a coaster-brake that engaged when I pushed a pedal backwards. Several times I took that coaster-brake apart but never understood how it did what it did. There were oil ports in each axle, and on the crank case. My dad and my grandfather explained the secrets of lubrication and bearing adjustment that a young guy needed in order to get along.

I learned on my own that if the chain guard came out of alignment the pedal crank would hit it on each revolution, making the characteristic clacking sound. This morning the fellow who went clacking up Damen Avenue seemingly in ignorance of loosening two small nuts and moving the guard inward the noise would go away. I could have told him that but know that it is one of those things a guy has to find out for himself when it was time.

Book Stall

BOOK STALL

My book writing has stalled, come up against a fence that has no entry although I feel that there must be a way up or around it. The writing had become boring, a recitation of hardships that became “feel sorry for me”. This is not what I had intended and had stated on this weblog earlier; and yet I find that I had put down a list of self-pity items. It is time to stop, sit down while I reset my compass, look at where and why I went adrift.

As with any writing I do it first for myself, to fulfill the need to express; then I try to see it with the eye of a reader; the combined aspects feels complete.

So far this book writing business is much like a love affair, at this point we have moved in together, have had the high-chemistry sex and now have to deal with who left the lid off the peanut butter, which way should a roll of toilet paper by hung, who has drunk more than their share of wine and should buy the next bottle. I knew it could happen this way, had said it would happen, and now it has happened that I am bored with the whole business; why did I start doing this? Will I love her even though she has no idea what to do with a roll of toilet tissue?

Perhaps mindfulness will be appropriate here; focus on the core thought as I watch the flow of the world go by at its own pace. I sit down at this machine to hear but one thing; what my inner voice is saying, copy those words, do it, and then do it again, and then do it again. Write with the hope of a good lover, this argument will make our love stronger in the end.

To Will One Thing

BEING AWARE

Above my desk is pinned a piece of printed paper:

“Purity of Heart Is to Will One Thing”,

wrote Søren Kierkegaard.

I printed and stuck it up there because each time I have looked at that idea I would feel it resonate deeper into me than is describable. I can understand that this thought is the foundation of being human; certainly the fundamental truth of Christianity, and of so many more that have a variety of names or else fall under the title of ‘being spiritual but not religious’.

I had put the sheet of paper up there a couple of days ago after reading his book again; I look at it when my mind is searching for something. And I looked at it as I left to go to the hospital this morning where I had a couple of appointments. I looked at it as I came home tired and in pain; orders for various tests and follow-up visits in my pocket, having heard stark medical facts–much aware of my mortality. My heart is acting up again, like the spoiled child who doesn’t like anything on his plate.

It is good to be reminded that the days are limited because their value is increased by their limited number.

The special nature of being human is that we are both finite even as we can know the infinite; that Purity of Heart which comes of Willing One Thing. The tension between these two is the excitement of being alive, an excitement that never becomes tiresome or out of fashion. I am someone who has a cantankerous organ that will limit how long I am here–at the same time I am beyond that, in a place that supersedes time and pain.

I don’t know how much this idea means to you who are reading it, perhaps nothing. I know that I felt obliged to write it, to dwell on this special aspect of being human.

Memoir writing theme

I had intended to be regular with these notes about how I am writing my memoirs. As in all writing timetables become distorted.

The memoir is not a diary or log; it is a series of incidents that were important to someone who was born susceptible to depression.

So far so good finding the memories and recording them.

The hard part is how to string these semi-precious stones together to make an idea that will interest a reader (me), and to show how I eventually made a happy life. I think of Gulliver’s Travels as an example of a good theme; but mine is not fiction. I want to show what my journey has been, yet I don’t intend to write a depressing book.

Writing resembles my bowels in that occasionally I have diarrhea and then I may be constipated; everything eventually comes out though.

That’s all I have as an update, it is time to put some words down and see if a theme emerges.

Book up to now

BOOK, A FEW DAYS IN

Now that I have been an honest-to-goodness book author for three days I want to bring the wannabes up to date; wannabe being my category until now.

I have about fourteen chapters, an introduction and a table of contents put down. Some chapters are still empty but there is plenty of time yet. What I have found is that by thinking of a chapter heading certain memories of or around that period come to mind; I note them on a scrap of paper, then add the beginning of that memory into the chapter; building upon building.

Today I learned something, again; how to keep track of various drafts and to know which ones I wanted to keep. There were a couple of chapter headings that I had tried and then discarded; but which ones and were the right ones in the contents section. Two hours of sorting, finding missing files, rebuilding the contents list and then putting a desktop shortcut on the repaired master document has taught me to be more careful about drafts and preferred documents. But each time I go through one of these exercises I become better informed about how to use the master-document format and more wonders of the computer than I had imagined.

I wish that I could give anyone, just one, advice on how to find the thing you want to write about; I have looked for years until I realized, again, that there is only one subject in which I know more than anyone else in the world. I’ll try to remember that tip the next time I feel the need to begin a new project; but I have a feeling that I’ll have to discover or invent that suggestion again.

To write a book

Writing a Book

Many people if asked whether they have ever wanted to write a book will say yes. For longer than I can remember I thought that I should write a book; after all how hard can it be if so many have done it? The requirements are that I would to have a desk in the right place, a good light, pen & paper or a word processing program on the PC–then write it. As simple as a Bush war plan.

I have all of the right gear; Cathy had given me a Mont Blanc fountain pen and a leather bound blank book; and for the last twenty years I have had computers with word processing programs that offered more and more features and user friendliness; except that used them to write emotional drivel in my journal and to compose email. I had thought that I wanted to write a book but came to the realization that there was nothing whatsoever that I had to say worthy of the time and effort of putting it together.

Recently a pen-pal asked me to tell more of my past. And so I put together a list of events that I remember as being important to me, it was then I realized that these could be chapter headings for a book, my book. Not necessarily a book for others just a book that I would write as best I can about a subject that only I know; if it ends up being interesting for me, perhaps others will think the same thing.

There is one other attraction to doing this; I use a program (Open Office) that has much to offer, it’d be fun to learn how to put a book together on the computer.

I am posting this on the weblog because I want potential authors to know how I eventually came to start this job;

& because it puts me on notice and people can ask my progress; and because writers write.

I plan to update my progress on this weblog.

To write a book

Writing a Book

Many people if asked whether they have ever wanted to write a book will say yes. For longer than I can remember I thought that I should write a book; after all how hard can it be if so many have done it? The requirements are that I would to have a desk in the right place, a good light, pen & paper or a word processing program on the PC–then write it. As simple as a Bush war plan.

I have all of the right gear; Cathy had given me a Mont Blanc fountain pen and a leather bound blank book; and for the last twenty years I have had computers with word processing programs that offered more and more features and user friendliness; except that I used them to write emotional drivel in my journal and to compose email. I had thought that I wanted to write a book but came to the realization that there was nothing whatsoever that I had to say worthy of the time and effort of putting it together.

Recently a pen-pal asked me to tell more of my past. And so I put together a list of events that I remember as being important to me, it was then I realized that these could be chapter headings for a book, my book. Not necessarily a book for others just a book that I would write as best I can about a subject that only I know; if it ends up being interesting for me, perhaps others will think the same thing.

There is one other attraction to doing this; I use a program (Open Office) that has much to offer, it’d be fun to learn how to put a book together on the computer.

I am posting this on the weblog because I want potential authors to know how I eventually came to start this job;

& because it puts me on notice and people can ask my progress; and because writers write.

I plan to update my progress on this weblog.

David Letterman, a public man

DAVID LETTERMAN

Last night I watched a very public man do what men should do when they go along the wrong way, he did what so few public people ever do; he had made errors, he admitted them without excuse, he stopped someone else from taking advantage of his mistakes, and is now focusing on what he can to protect all that he loves in life.

The list of public people who give in to the knee-jerk reaction of denying and lying is a long one, one that has grown continually for decades; the actions of people who ignore the truth that they are responsible. We are all responsible, we all occasionally go down a regrettable path; and then we are similarly responsible for doing what we can to make amends. Letterman has done all that, he has not asked for pity or special favor; he is paying a price now and will to pay more in the future, perhaps a long future.

That some people will feel the need to throw ashes on his head makes me ask how they have responded when they did something wrong; remember that no one has never made a misstep or two, that is how we learn, that is what we are about, it is how a man responds that shows how real qualities of character.

How do you and I respond when we do something wrong? The answer is what is relevant and important here.

A cause of fibromyalgia

FIBROMYALGIA, HOW COME?

My fibromyalgia has returned with the vengeance that only those who have known this beast can appreciate. For about a year I had about forgotten that I had been under the control of this fiend for three decades; the Cymbalta was working like a charm, I assumed that there is a silver bullet, I had found it. I wrote several posts about how peace had finally come to my universe, I stopped writing because it was repetitive, there was nothing new to say.

Recently the nasty one has slunk out of the woods and sank his fangs into all the parts of my body; the wounds seemed slight, reaction to a new exercise program, a hamstring that I must have overstretched or somehow damaged. As the pain grew worse I checked with the people at the Chronic Pain Clinic who couldn’t think of anything different to do other than perhaps increasing the amount of Cymbalta. The pain led to fatigue that led to excessive worry about my recent heart situation; and so I began a series of tests which showed almost nothing except for apnea, which is now being managed pretty well thank you. The future was to either crawl into my hole and feel sorry for myself, a procedure that is not unfamiliar; or make a different noise about what is going on with this attack. Messages were sent to various people in white coats over at the Great Hospital by The Lake, allusions to the Baron Münchhausen were included, dramatic appeals to look at this differently than before were made.

There will be a gap here because testing, hearing results, passing to the next specialist, retelling the old story—that part doesn’t need repeating to those of you who have learned it well.

I finally braced my internist to examine what is going on right now with an eye to a million dollars worth of testing or to go home and live with it. Out of the conversation was his observation that there can be a cyclical nature to bouts of FM, had I noticed that, had anything big happened just about the time of this latest flare? There didn’t seem to be anything until I threw out my last comment about a family situation that had made the holidays the most painful of my life, but that it wasn’t a new situation and certainly had no physical aspect. When did the latest bout of FM begin? When did it become severe? The answer to both coincided with another family anniversary that also connected to the Christmas situation.

That was a day ago, in the time since I have been able to remember other instances and other flaring of the FM. The instances where I never had the courage to admit the pain caused by the rejection of almost everything I hold important, these things were too big to be expressed and just had to be endured, my cross to bear.

Needless to say I think we are on to something here, I can feel that release of tension and return of the easiness of understanding that comes at times like this. It certainly isn’t over yet but the beast has a vulnerable area and my knife is pushing deeply.

The internist suggested that on this blog I ask others if they had circumstances that might be coincidental, trauma of various kinds, patterns of recurrences such as anniversaries or reaction to events; any difficult situations that were too painful to express fully.

If you respond to this know that I don’t want to know personal details that might embarrass or identify you, you can send me private responses if you wish. I will merely pass the information along to the white coated guy who sparked this, to see if we can find some way to help others. If I have missed any comments about confidential matters or professional guides please let me know; I ain’t in the medical profession, I am not interested in passing along or even knowing your private events, just if you had them and could they have preceded a flaring of fibromyalgia?

Chicago, the hand held city

For over three months I have been wanting to write a post on this subject; knew that I wanted to say a few things, get them down on virtual paper and so to clear my mind. The thing that held me off was that of coming to the right view, the better attitude–I am there and here it goes.

As I drives out of O’Hare Airport on I-190 I often notice the overhead sign that declares “Chicago is a hands free cell phone city”. This is one of the first impressions a visitor has of our town, the airport being different as it is but a facet of the international air travel system. The next views are the masses of flowers, grasses and ornamental bushes that line the highway, a hint that this is a town that is serious about its appearance and attitude.

Then my car joins with the mass of other automobiles on the Kennedy Expressway heading southeasterly towards the Loop and eventually eastward to the Atlantic. We have heavy traffic for more hours of the day than we don’t; the morning rush hour starts sometime after six and lasts until about ten, the afternoon traffic congests somewhere before three and doesn’t loosen until well after seven. These periods may on occasion be longer but almost never are they less; weekends are no less because people we want to get out and around, to go shopping, visiting or are just traveling through the area. The reason that I list some details of our traffic is because it relates to what the overhead sign at O’Hare proclaims.

My observations won’t have much statistical value because I am too occupied to actually count, but I truly believe that by the time I drive the eighteen or so miles towards the Loop I will have observed at least fifty people holding cell phones to their ears, the number who are staring at something on the little screen is less but is more frightening. And here is my point, my question: Why do so many drivers use their cell phones in Chicago? For a long time this habit made me angry because as a professional driver I feel as threatened by distracted driving as I am by drunk or buzzed drivers. I was angry because I am more likely to be injured than if they hung up their phones to concentrate on driving their two tons of machinery along some of the most congested highways of this whole country. I was and still am angry because I see that the threat.

It is not as if City Hall had not noticed and paid service to this hazard; there is on the books a penalty of $250 for driving while using a hand held phone. Hands free phones were exempt so that drivers could pretend to be conscientious, hand held not so much. The law was passed a couple of years ago against heavy lobbying by the communications industry (certainly not because the mayor’s brother had run SW Bell). After the passage we all made sure that we had the ear piece attachment that would make us legal drivers again; we slowly became aware that although it was prohibited de jure, it was not forbidden de facto. A driver is as unlikely to get a ticket for driving while using a hand held as he is to get a speeding ticket; and no one gets speeding tickets in Chicago except on the Outer Drive or by State Troopers.

Stand at any busy intersection, watch the traffic as the lights change and you will need to take your shoes and socks off to count the cars being driven by otherwise occupied cell phone users. It takes a little longer to observe a number of police car drivers on their cell phones, but then again there are a lot less patrol cars than citizen’s. The lowest count will come for bus drivers of the CTA, but the number is there; it was slow to start but becomes less uncommon as the months add up.

That’s my observation of the scene; here is my quandary. There has to be a reason that supersedes the need for traffic safety; there has to be something greater than that of making aware soccer moms in Range Rovers drifting through red lights with a bunch of kids in the back. There has to be some greater good to citizens and perhaps this is the spirit of what we are about; perhaps the reason is theological or at least spiritual in nature. City Hall does not stop the issuing of expensive tickets for no reason at all (remember that it is $250 per pop). It is the search for this ultimate reason that kept me from just ranting about what I saw as a safety and law enforcement problem; and now I think I have the truth, it is related to the planting of flowers and other ornamentals.

This is a city that thrives on being in a good frame of mind no matter what; observe our love for the Cubs as just the most obvious example; that we don’t forsake the town in spite of hard winters; that we pay the highest sales tax in the nation because He has ordained it so. We are of good spirit; there is nothing that contributes to feeling good than our friends and relatives; nothing makes friends and relatives more cherished than connecting with them whenever possible; no device is more suited to making mom, boyfriend, office friends more important than to talk with them on any and all occasion. It is this spirit of having close friends that is greater than traffic accidents and casualties, trumps the slowdown effect on traffic caused by erratic driving. So this cell phone use is to be seen as a good thing, it is a positive for which we ought to be thankful that those who rule this town have decided to ignore law for the sake of an even greater one; that of talking to one’s girlfriends long and often. There is also the benefit of saying “like” twenty times per minute, the mantra that offers relief of anxiety and tension.

This decision is good and everyone should appreciate the long sighted nature of our betters, especially in these difficult times. Just another reason why I love living in the city not only of Obama and Blagoyevich, but the Modern Wing of the Art Institute and the Vader-like City Hall.

As I finish this post I keep in mind that I am not influenced by my recent parking ticket for having a clear plastic cover over my license plate; or the earlier one for having my front bumper eighteen inches inside a yellow curb zone. I know that for those offenses it was right to be punished; that the potential for harm I caused by these two egregious acts needed law enforcement action. I know and respect the law for keeping me in line when I was wandering over it. This understanding kept me in the right attitude as I figured out why Chicago encourages hand held cell phone users among its millions of drivers.