Crossing to Safety

Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


The first time I read this book, the defining chapter was Chapter 13 - The chapter with the Tea Box incident, the discovery of Eden, Sid and Sally and Charity and Larry, all together out in the woods.  My gut reaction was:

I know exactly what Sid is going through. 
I've been there. 
I know that feeling of futility and anger and rage at being told to do something over and over again in order to please somebody else who is WRONG.

Many of the other aspects of the plot, including the Great Depression, the fight for literary principles amidst struggling for tenure, how twenty years can pass between seeing someone you respect and love and it seems like twenty minutes...did not rest in my conscious mind quite like Charity.  The thing that stuck with me, and I remember the impact it had on me each time I read it, is the tension in Larry's narration of Sid and Charity Lang, arguing about the Tea Boxes.  How discomforting it is to others to be witness to the spectacle of discord.  Later in the novel, Charity retains her control over Sid, The theme is played out in almost unnecessary extravagance - Larry is left wandering, half in thought and half in purpose, trying to find Sid.
After being familiar with this novel for the past 17 years, it strikes me now as antiquated, homoerotic, male centric, predisposed to misogyny, heavy handed in its portrayal of men as educators and women as nurturers and not without brilliance.  Wallace Stegner persists mainly as a writer of the way things were - the Wild West of the Civilian Corps of Engineers damming great rivers, building monolithic structures never before and never since seen on Earth.  His depiction of the male in books like Big Rock Candy Mountain and Angle of Repose is constant - bracingly arrogant, given to fits of anger, misunderstood in his vulnerability, strong and capable if given the opportunity to prove his mettle.  His tragic flaw is a wondering spirit that will not be settled as the land around him becomes more and more developed.
These key ingredients are in Crossing To Safety, but toned down to meet Lake Monona rather than Lake Powell.  Larry's capacity for creation is something he administers and controls with a passion, cloistering himself in order to write novels and stories, yet only in Sid's presence does he appreciate the Xanadu they find together while camping in chapter 13, the same chapter Charity makes assertions that are incorrect, the same chapter Sally is stricken with Polio.  The strength of the male characters is juxtaposed with the female character's display of infirmity and the reader is left impressed with Charity's great capacity for error.   
This is still one of my favorite novels, because it keeps teaching me things - the platonic search for friendship in male and female form, while also conforming to the biological imperative of reproduction is something I would appreciate a little help with, but I'm not sure this is the right book for a first date with an attractive feminist. 
More than one review I've read quotes Larry discussing the concept of a novel about nothing, about everyday people, how he and Sid and Charity and Sally are too common and uninteresting for introspection - the striking feature of each is how they learn to adapt to their defining characteristics, even when they can't, in order to find success in their personal lives.  After twenty years of not seeing one another, the tension Larry saw during their camping trip is still evident, as well as an eccentricity from Charity that smacks of neuroses or hysteria.  The conclusion rests on Larry finding Sid, with charity on her deathbed and Sally hobbled by polio; one is left to speculate whether their passion for language will suffice.  



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Cathexis

 

My third pottery class with the Saint Paul Community education program wrapped up this week - I've enjoyed the opportunity to learn the fundamentals of throwing, shaping, trimming, glazing and finishing.  The skill that seems to elude me, and is predominantly important to these others, is the ability to properly center a piece of clay, even before it sits on the wheel.  Of the sixty or so pieces I've finished, I'd say less than a handful demonstrate a well centered, well balanced consistency. 

I guess it's notable because of how often it gets taken for granted, without really understanding the amount of dedication it must take to establish the ability to do so unerringly - likely why at least two different instructors have mentioned the 10,000 vessel theory, (that being true mastery only begins after the first ten thousand pieces of clay have been properly centered, thrown, trimmed, glazed and finished). 

A book I just finished reading, Bounce, mentioned 10,000 hours of directed or deep practice as essential to mastery of a skill:  10,000 hours of service and volley for tennis, 10,000 hours of piano lessons for piano, 10,000 hours of gymnastics routines, the author's premise relied on the 10,000 hours being done with the correct direction from an appropriate source. 

An interesting side note, the author also mentioned a variety of psychological experiments based on encouraging children to participate rather than rewarding them directly for their results - most interesting to me was an experiment wherein a control group was given the same unsolvable math problem as a group of students of the same age who had been told they shared a birthday with a famous mathematician.  The group who had been lied to, the ones working under the premise of sharing a birthday with a fictional character, persevered on the impossible problem for a longer period of time.  Whether or not this demonstrates a propensity for being stubborn or dedication, and whether or not this is a good thing, is up for debate. 

Turned vessel, photo by Michael McKinney

Finished vessel, photo by Michael McKinney

Finished, green and wet vessels, photo by Michael McKinney

Bounce: Mozart, Federer, Picasso, Beckham, and the Science of Success by Matthew Syed

My rating: 3 of 5 stars






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Swing state

Seventy degrees on Saturday. Below freezing with a nasty wind chill on Monday. From 115 PSI in 700 x 25 tires on 27 inch wheels with 27 gears, to 45 PSI in 29 x 55 tires on 29 inch wheels with one gear.

November tenth bike ride

I got out for three hours on a nice Saturday afternoon, seeking out some elevation in South Saint Paul, West Saint Paul and the Mendota Heighs area.  Kaposia Park hill was definitely the highlight of the ride - today I spent some time getting my front wheel in true, as the friction of having it rubbing on the front brake for three hours detracted from the overall enjoyment of the day. I also listened to some music along the way, here's a playlist -

Porcelain - Moby
My Mind is Rambling - The Black Keys
12 Etudes - Christopher Parkening
Windfall - Son Volt
House Mop - Medeski Martin and Wood
Sympathy for the Devil - The Rolling Stones
Bus to Beelzebub - Soul Coughing
Once I had a Woman - Jimi Hendrix
Hear my Train a Coming - Jimi Hendrix
Stop - Jane's Addiction
We're So - Medeski Martin and Wood
Let's Go Crazy - Prince
Shake Your Money Maker - Paul Butterfield
Drown - Son Volt
Statesboro Blues - The Allman Brothers
The Wind Cries Mary - Jimi Hendrix
Synchronicity - The Police
Black Limousine - The Rolling Stones
Outta Mind (Outta Sight) - Wilco
The Lover - Medeski Martin and Wood
Sometimes Truth is Stranger than Fiction - Bad Religion
Walking a Cow - Firehose
Wait Until Tomorrow - Jimi Hendrix
Whatever Happened to Gus - Medeski Martin and Wood

Photo by Michael McKinney

Voulare - The Gypsy Kings
Cult of Personality - Living Colour
I Can't Stand up For Falling Down - Elvis Costello
Estudio Brilliante - Christopher Parkening
I Guess I Planted - Billy Bragg and Wilco
True Dreams of Witchita - Soul Coughing
Flying Saucer - The Wedding Present
Sunspots - Bob Mould
Recuerdos De La Alhambia - The Gypsy Kings
Belleville - Borelli Legrene
All Along the Watchtower - Jimi Hendrix
No Use in Crying - The Rolling Stones
Moral Kiosk - REM
Nocturne - Medeski Martin and Wood
Prodigal Son - the Rolling Stones
Waiting on a Friend - the Rolling Stones
Let me Take You Home Tonight - Boston
Rock Music - The Pixies
Tree House - Buffalo Tom
St. Charles Shuffle - Peter Lang
Bombs Away - The Police
Catfish Blues - Jimi Hendrix

Matching parts

Rear Derailleur riding the freewheel.  Photo by Michael McKinney

About a month ago, my rear derailleur started showing signs of wear.  It is an Ultegra 600 component I have been using reliably with my current configuration on a daily basis.  Granted, the riding is not extreme in distance or environment, (I'm not riding through front range blizzards, Afghanistan sand storms or Alaskan nights of the Midnight sun or anything), regardless, the derailleur has been running smoothly and without great trouble since resolving this particular issue, about a month ago - here's what happened.
If you notice the picture on the right, you'll see that the chain is slack, the cage of the derailleur is riding on the rear sprocket freewheel and something just seems wrong.  After correctly diagnosing that something was indeed wrong, (a few days of hearing the derailleur riding on the freewheel, locking the crank and chain when shifting and dropping the chain numerous times was enough to convince me something was indeed wrong), I proceeded to remove the chain, the rear derailleur and contact at least three or four better trained, more experienced peoples who might assist me in determining the correct course of action. 

Rear Derailleur.  Photo by Michael McKinney.

After having a couple of discussions with anonymous parties on Craigslist, where I have previously sought assistance in bicycle mechanics, I decided to have a professional look at it.  After a thorough check, he informed me that the derailleur was not actually mounted correctly, and was not functioning because the chain had stretched enough to adequately negate the efficacy of the incorrecly mounted component.  The part may have been working well, but since the chain had stretched enough, the component was now in need of a re-alignment, thankfully not replacement. 

Derailleur, proper.  Photo by Michael McKinney.

Rear Derailleur, improper. Photo by Michael McKinney.

Here are a couple of photos that illustrate what
he was referring to - notice the angle of the writing on
the derailleur.

After also replacing the chain and re-adjusting the derailleur into the correct configuration, which required some skillful manipulation of a tool not specifically suited for that task, the mechanic and I parted ways - myself happy I asked before making the problem worse.










In non-related news, I've gotten to working on a new sourdough recipe, with dried fruit, honey and a levain made from organic flour.  Here are some photos of that -

24 hour levain.  Photo by Michael McKinney

Rising bread.  Photo by Michael McKinney

Finished product.  Photo by Michael McKinney.

Sourdough

Last week, I made a batch of sourdough, using some rye flour as a starter - although the recipe I used for the ratios of water and flour called for second, third and fourth starters to be mixed from the original starter, the 24 hour levain worked well and a small batch of bread was produced. I used organic flour, honey and kosher salt. After working my way through that batch, I put together another batch of cranberry wheat bread, and used almond meal in the recipe. Came out pretty well. Here are some pictures of the sourdough levain, dough and finished product, as well as the cranberry loaves.

24 hour Rye Starter, Photo by Michael McKinney

Sourdough, 1st rise, Photo by Michael McKinney

Sourdough, final rise, Photo by Michael McKinney

Honey Wheat Sourdough, Photo by Michael McKinney

Cranberry Almond Wheat Bread, Photo by Michael McKinney

Another thing - I got royally stumped on a sudoku puzzle in the newspaper - the five star Friday puzzle had me riding out at 11:00 PM to find the last copy of the paper and gently setting it aside until I felt ready to attempt it again.  The next day, it took me an hour in the morning, followed by the exact same thing happening on the Saturday five star puzzle, leading to three hours of puzzling and at least ten wrong answers before getting the right numbers in the right places, here's a photo of the finished result -

10-6-2012 Five Star Sudoku, Photo by Michael McKinney

Deferment

I was sitting at the Caribou coffee shop in the Rosedale shopping mall, about nine months ago, waiting for an appointment at the Apple Genius Bar, when inspiration struck after reading a post in the Writing and Literary Discussion forum of the local Craigslist message board.  After reading my response to the initial post, and thinking about whether or not I answered the question or just sought to bring attention to myself, it seems redundant to struggle for authenticity and genuine effort when the likelihood of being sold down the river is so great.  Forgive the overtly antiquated and obviously inflammatory reference - if I didn't feel it suited my burden I wouldn't apply it.
So, Monday morning. 

and so this night, it started - < mlmck > 01/18 16:00:39

I wrote a short story, about 17 years ago, over the course of a week. It started with that phrase, "And so this night it started..." I submitted for review to the highest chair of the English Department at the University I was attending, and he informed me of two things:

1. Starting a sentence with "And so..." was pretty pedestrian and hackneyed.
2. If you have the goods, sell them.

I kept the draft I submitted, with his handwritten comments, and went further in asking him what he meant by selling the goods. His assertion was the short story was relevant, in some way, and needed to be sold. Never happened. In response to your question, I think starting a sentence with the word, "Incidentally" is a little pretentious and conceived. You're setting a tone for the rest of the story, essay or novel that indicates a certain malaise / boredom / narcissism / "Being half in love with an easeful death"
I like the idea though, and the concept of introducing a narrative half in thought is true to the nature of inspiration...as if to imply the reader already knows at least as much about the world, oneself, general practicalities, social constraints and cultural differences between peoples, and then introduces a new radical thought with "Incidentally...". I believe it worked for JD Salinger.
Here's my effort, for posterity.
Incidentally, psychiatric wards in hospitals don't allow fresh air into the rooms of the patients. Opening a window, feeling the wind, the breeze, smelling the night air and the passing of time between night and day is not allowed. A shadow on the ceiling, a certain amount of natural light, the constant sounds of doors opening and closing, buzzing of locks, arguing of patients, your roommates sighing lack of sleep become the environment of your stay. The artificiality of your surroundings seems to reinforce the dramatic need for calm, as if your natural inclination to flee and return to the wilds of your youth will only cause further duress - a thunderstorm passes and though every day of your life you've sought an open window with which to be closer to the tremendous wind, rain and sounds, your stay is not a voluntary attempt at seclusion. It is a compulsory effort to alter your experiences, to change the perceptions of what defines your mental health, to encapsulate your behavior and present it as either autonomous or sympathetic.

I think this piece of writing can be readily juxtaposed with a review I wrote on Goodreads, back in 2010 -

The Simpsons and Philosophy: The D'oh! of Homer by William Irwin

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


So, yesterday, while cussing out a library computer, well within earshot of an innocent bystander, sitting at her computer with a dazed, mildly insulted look on her face, I started into a rant worthy of another Francis Ford Coppola movie.  Something to do with JFK, the Bar Mitzvah I never had; it all pertained, of course, to why the library's computer would not print my document.  Which was, of course, user error. 

So, Philosophy...you're kidding right? 

Every philosophy person/student/professor I've ever met exudes calm, quiet, serenity, perfect and unassailable equanimity with their surroundings.  They are aloof, they are unapproachable, they are the persons of interest on any college campus, think-tank or place of intellectual stimulation.  I don't know JACK about philosophy...or String Theory.  But, I've watched the Simpson's ever since I saw Doctor Marvin Monroe try, try, try to manage the classic familial aggression so ingrained in the Simpson family. 

"Apparently, Homer, your family sees you as something of an ogre." 

Since those words, and laughing myself silly at the sight of all five family members hooked up to electric shock therapy, shocking each other while trying to get one another to "...shut the hell up...", I've succumbed to the most classic of all enabling devices, the television.
So, what does this book have to do with me, with ranting, with the Simpsons, with philosophy and tolerance? 
After acknowledging education is the long process of unlearning what you know in order to accept what you don't, there is a gutless feeling...like falling off a cliff, or being publicly shamed.  There is a feeling that everything you've been taught, learned or have been given, is suspect.  Dirty.  Undignified.  Soiled. 
As if what you've been working so hard to construct is just an enterprise for somebody else to take credit for.  Nothing has been more difficult in my life than that realization.  Every time it is brought back to me, I encounter that same, fatalistic thought.  "What's the point?"
To establish the quality of life that allows an individual to learn in the first place, seems like an achievement; to undo it all and start over, seems like an impossible and pointless goal.  Among the people you meet and see every day, new faces or old, there are few to whom struggle is a foreign concept.  If nothing else, The Simpson's can alleviate the feeling that everyone has something to laugh at, but you.  Learning to appreciate that can make all the difference between asking what's the point and why not. 



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