Quixotic

Dirty Thirty

Here we are: 30 days, 30 posts.  I would love to keep this up forever but it seems I may be dashing off to Portugal this weekend to check in on someone who is sick.  It will be cold and sad and internetless.  Which is sort of sad, too. 

I thought posting everyday would pose some sort of challenge but it turns out to be easy peasy.  Logistically speaking, it was a bit tricky there when I was in Belgium and Germany, but besides that it was a cinch.  I'm built for stamina.  So, in celebration of this new achievement (which is seriously no big deal, especially when you do not have to adhere to any silly self-imposed standards of "quality" or "cheekiness"), I will now talk about sex.  That's right: sex.  Ess-ee-ex.  That spells sex.

Do I have your attention now?  Good, because what I really want to talk about is Derrida and post-structuralist theory.  I was just using sex to grab your attention.  The old bait-and-switch.  Heh.  Nah, not really.  Don't worry, I'm not going to go there again.  Although, he is sort of cute.  I mean, you know, when he was alive and all.

And who could resist a name like Jacques?  Hoo.  I would do him.

...

(I would like to take this opportunity to point out something truly startling: there are no search results when you Google "sex with dead philosopher".  Really, I'm feeling very alone at this moment.)

It's Magic

My daughter, Isabel, she's great.  Our favorite game goes like this:

Her:  Let's play Abracadabra.

Me:  Sure.  Abracadabra, you are...

Her:  A lion!

Me:  Okay, a lion.

Her (in an attack stance):  ROWR!

Me:  Ahhh!  Okay... okay... Abracadabra, you are... a kitten!

Her (on all fours):  Mew, mew.  (licks her paw)

Me:  Abracadabra, you are... a pirate!

Her (brandishing a sword):  Arrrgggghhh!

Me:  Good one!  Abracadabra, you are... a little bird.

Her (flapping arms and running):  Piu-piu, piu-piu.

Me:  Abracadabra, you are...

Her:  A lion!

Me:  No... not again...

Her:  A chiquitita (little-bitty) lion?

Me:  Okay, a chiquitita lion.

Her:  rowr!

Me:  Abracadabra, you are...

Her:  rowr!

Me:  You are a...

Her:  rowr! ...rowr! 

Me:  No, no more lions!  Abracadabra, you are...

Her:  It's my turn.

Me:  Your turn?  Okay, um...

Her:  Abracadabra, you are... a bookcase.

Me:  ...

Her:  ...

Me:  It's my turn again.  Abracadabra, you are... a monkey.

Her (scratching underarms and making doofy faces):  Oooh-oooh, Oooh-oooh-oooh.

Me: Excelente!  Now...

Her:  ROWR!

And so on.

I can't imagine that any age is going to be as much fun (for me) as this 3-year-old stage. 

The Corporate Saussure

I'm all wrapped up in work today, so I thought I would share a little of that.  Here is an email I composed today to a subcontractor who informed me after he completed the fieldwork that (a) he did not have the support he needed, and (b) that the presence of our field engineer/supervisor was "not required":

Dear ****,

With regard to your remarks, I have a few observations:

We understand your requirement for a helper and we had communicated this to the customer at both *(site1)* and *(site2)*.  In both cases the customer provided ***** personnel to support your specialists.  I admit, at *(site1)*  this was more difficult to accomplish due to a shortage of personnel; however, *(site2)* consistently provided support.  If, as you say, this was not sufficient, it is the first time I am hearing about it.  In the future, if you find that the support you receive is not to your satisfaction, I hope we can have a candid conversation about it during the field work and resolve it promptly.

Mr. *(ourperson)* was present at *(site2)* during this period to coordinate and supervise the work, interface with the customer, ensure communication despite the language barriers, and lend his assistance for troubleshooting.  This is his role on our projects.  There are several problems with the *(site2)* systems as I am sure you are aware.  Our scope of work requires an evaluation of the systems, which includes but is not limited to the *(yourareaofexpertise)*.  I am finding the information I received from you for the *(site1)**  project to be a bit incomplete, in terms of an "evaluation".  This is something I need to address with you soon so that I can finalize a report of that work.  *(Site2)* is a different situation, and here we have two operating systems with minor problems which do not have a serious impact on the functionality of the systems (as was the case at *(site1)*).  At any rate this work is not simple, not standardized, and no template currently exists for how to best perform a systems evaluation of this nature, so I expect that we will work together to achieve the stated objectives to everyone's satisfaction.  I have no firm preconceptions about how this should be best performed, except that I think the types of tests performed should be similar to a system commissioning during a startup.  Certainly this is something we need to discuss and improve further as this type of "specialized maintenance event" becomes (hopefully) more routine.

I believe a mutual understanding is important to accomplish this type of work, so please feel free to express your concerns to me and you can expect my sincere attention to the matter.

Also, I would like to point out that *(mycompany)* has extended a generous amount of trust in *(yourcompany)* by pre-paying for the work at *(site2)*  This is a huge exception to our policy, paying for services months in advance of receiving them.  However, I am happy to extend my trust to *(yourcompany)* based on your reputation in the industry, even though I have no previous direct working experience with you.  I expect that you and your staff extend a certain amount of trust to *(mycompany)* as well, and that includes open communication about issues and problems.

Having said all this, I would like to add that I look forward to our continued working relationship.

Best Regards,

*(me)*

I just realized that this probably makes no sense at all without the backstory and with all those dang ****'s.  But that's what I have today.  I don't know, folks: seventeen years in this business and I am still shocked by the games people play.  Naívete dies hard.

What I find useful about this exchange is that I finally understand what it means to be a "transparent" company.  This buzzword has been thrown around corporate circles recently and I have been trying to decipher the meaning of it; I even brought it up in a recent management meeting. I asked, What does transparency mean? (apparently I take the "no such thing as a stupid question" proverb literally, and a bit far sometimes).  No one rushed forth to tackle that question, but eventually I gathered that it has something to do with communication and visibility.

Now I have this subcontractor who serves as a tangible example of an extremely non-transparent company.  I have defined something by what it is not.  Saussure did that, and if this method was good enough for a 19th-century french linguist, it's good enough for me.  Actually, he just did it with words; I'm doing it with corporations.  In the future I think I'll start referring to myself as "the Corporate Saussure" in management meetings and see their reaction.

In fact, it's not fair of me to say that these are merely games that people play.  These projects require the involvement of Germans, Americans, Spaniards, and Portuguese all working together, typically using english as the common language.  It's only natural that clouds of doubt and a fog of confusion are muddling up our cherished transparency.  This is the fundamental human condition: that no one of us is ever truly visible to the other.  When cultural and language barriers are added on top of that, we have some major obstacles to overcome just to understand each other on the most basic level.  More and more, I am learning that it is something I really, really have to work at.

 

Powerless

I arrived to my office this morning to discover that there was no power.  The circuit breakers all appeared to be working.  I briefly wondered if it is possible that our power had been cut off by the electric company, but that didn't seem possible because our payments are automatically withdrawn from the bank account.  So I called the landlord. 

Now the problem seems to be that our office is in a flat which is identified as 3-Der-B.  That means 3rd floor (which is actually the 4th floor, in Euro-speak), Derecha (right side), and we are the "B".  Except that there is nothing indicating that we are "B", or that the other apartment here is "A".

The current theory is that we have been paying our neighbor's electric bill these past few months, and their bill has been unpaid because they haven't received it.  Or something like that.  Anyhow, extension cords have been run through windows and along floors and we are functioning, but no lights or air conditioning.  The result?  Peeing in the bathroom is very, very dark... and my fingers are cold.  So cold.

Brrr.

I'm still trying to decide what I think about this posting-every-day thing.  I don't know.  There is certainly a tendency to just jump in and put down whatever crap is rolling around in the noodle.  Which, I suppose, is the point of the exercise.  Hmmm.  Time and distance will have to judge this one.  Until then, I am powerless.

Because It's Good for Your Karma

Would anyone like to do my job for me while I screw around for the next few weeks?  I am prepared to reward you with karma points.  Lots and lots of happy, happy karma points.  Additional karma points can be earned by cooking hot meals and serving them to me while I am piled beneath warm, cozy blankets on the couch. 

Cold hard cash will be paid to anyone who invents a book holder/pageturner which does not require the use of my hands, or a mouse that points and clicks simply by blinking one's eyes.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It's hard to type the word karma without recalling an incident some years ago which involved a former hippyish friend and her little boy.  (clarification: former friend, probably still hippyish.)

The boy was running around tearing up my house in classic wild-child style, when suddenly he fell down and started crying.  She leaned over him and said, You see?  Do you see what karma does to you!?

We weren't friends for much longer after that. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Which brings me to a grammatical question: if hippies are the plural form, is the singular form a hippie or a hippy?  Or are there no single hippies, preferring to congregate in groups? 

I'd like to think that the hippies wouldn't mind either spelling.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I think it's easy to see how my desire for rest and repose quickly degenerated into a discussion of hippies and karma.  Let me show you the math:

{(My)(Comfort)/x} = {(Your)(Karma)/x}

where x represents a real number, positive integer, or fraction thereof:

(%percent)(x) is a function of:   {(hippies)/(friendship)} + {1/(grammatical doubts)}

where, as friendship decreases, this value approaches infinity; however, if the number of hippies similarly decreases, this value approaches one.  It's what we in the biz call an inverse relationship.

Got it?  Therefore, hippies are mathematically proven to be bad for your karma.  Grammatical doubts, however, have very little impact.

Now, some pumpkin soup would be nice.  Or some sort of chowder.  A bisque would also be delightful.

Your next life is going to be great; I'm certain of it.

Groundwork

A tenacious red bouganvillea used to reside in my front yard. Over the years, I waged many battles against the large and prickly bush.  I have never known a plant with such a desire to live.

I tried to kill it any number of times: hacking it all the way to the ground, to a bare knob.  It thrived in spite of many amputations.  I cut it down until it was hardly a splintery nub, whacked its roots with a machete; but each time it grew back stronger and more recalcitrant.

It returned sweetly, inoffensively, as a tiny shoot with harmless new-green leaves; then before I knew it, more substantial branches would emerge, tentacles inching their way forward with each wet summer day.

After many thwarted attempts I finally I took a shovel and dug it up, a more difficult task than it first seemed.  I followed every tendril back and back until I had removed each one.  Sprays of dirt showered down on me as I tugged and pryed its roots.  Nevertheless, I attacked it with cold and methodical determination.  It took me hours, an entire day, to completely unearth it.

Afterward, a mound of tangled and misshapen limbs lay in the yard on a bed of heart-shaped leaves.  Having left no trace of it in the ground, I finally felt satisfied it would never recover.

I stood there covered in sweat and earth, leaning against the shovel, my palms sore and my legs torn from dozens of tiny wounds, and I stared at the spot where it used to be.  The ground was now stripped bare and starkly revealed the shabbiness of the front walkway.  I paused, trying to adjust my mind to this new reality, wondering how I would fill this emptiness, how I could distract one's eyes from this pitiful entryway toward something more presentable.

Finally I shook my head, exhausted from the day's efforts.  Something low-maintenance, I thought, watching a lizard scurry up the stucco wall, presumably in search of new quarters after I had leveled his residence.  I inspected my arms, covered in pinpricks.  Something without thorns.

I still dream about it, that it has grown too big, that I am cutting it with large clippers, shorning it.  The branches fall around me, their prickly thorns grazing my skin, scratching me lightly.

And when I awake, I strain to remember if it is still there, if perhaps a bit has survived, if tiny shoots are still stirring, somewhere, in the ground.

Harsh

I was late returning books to the library.  Very late, almost a month. 

The punishment?  My library card is suspended until 29 March 2008. 

I asked the librarian, How does that work?

She shrugged and said, It's not me, it's the computer that decides how long your card is suspended.

Some days it's not surprising that the Inquisition thrived here for so many years.

Tautological Post

In my mind, I think that the basic fundamentals of a living conciousness still continue to perplex me, but this is limited only to feeling emotionally confounded at 2 am in the morning.

(I inanely composed that dreadful monstrosity of repetitive tautology for no good reason.)

(And that one as well.)

(This could go on for a while.)

Would anyone else like to attempt composing a sentence with 7 or more instances of redundancy?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

In other news, I am here to impart knowledge which I have scrupulously gathered from the internets: today I learned that vegetarians who eat fish but not meat may be referred to as demi-vegetarians, or pescatarians.  Alternatively, you could say, I am a vegetarian who eats fish. 

Also?  A group of butterflies is called a rabble.  Or you could say a group of butterflies. 

Either way.

And for those of you keeping score at home, the exchange rate is now at 1.483 USD/Euro.

At the moment, that's all I have right now.

(And so on, etc.)

Art... in Context

In the past few weeks Isabel has created scores of drawings which all contain the same elements: sun, grass, flowers, clouds (sometimes referred to as "birds"), girl, and house. 

I always enjoy the sense of proportion and scale in these pictures.  As portrayed in this archetypical example of her art, the flowers are invariably larger than the girl, the sun, the clouds, and the house (shown in blue, bottom left, and yes I had to ask what it was).  After viewing dozens of these mini-masterpieces, I realized at long last that if one were to include tangerine trees and marmalade skies, we would have an adequate representation of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. 

Anyway.

Several months ago I read this fascinating piece about how violin virtuoso Joshua Bell decided to conduct an interesting social experiment.  He dressed up in jeans and a t-shirt and played the role of a street performer one morning to pedestrians in busy downtown DC.  How do you suppose these roughly 1,100 people who passed by during his 47-minute performance reacted to an acclaimed concert violinist passionately performing his art?  How would you react? 

The article raises a lot of questions about whether ordinary people can recognize genius, or appreciate beauty, when encountered out of context. 

Let's just say that this gave me a lot to ponder.  As an adoring mother I can clearly see the beauty in Isabel's crude illustrations.  After all, I have optimum conditions for appreciation of her efforts.  And street performers?  I find myself stopping more often now to hear them play, paying more attention, and being considerably more generous. 

In Neutral

I will never understand driving in this city.

Even in the most desperate parking situations, I cannot bring myself to double-park.  I know, everybody does it; apparently it's legal as long as you leave your vehicle in neutral.  At least once a week I have to push someone's car out of the way so I can exit my parking spot.  Then push it back. 

You wouldn't believe it.  I could tell you, but you wouldn't believe it. 

In other news:  Linear thinking has temporarily been restored to this blog. 

Don't hold your breath, though.