(About a 8 minute read)
Yesterday began bright and sunny. Then in the afternoon, it began clouding over. When the air chilled, the squirrels absented themselves, perhaps sensing the coming storm.
Eventually, the wind rose and the grass rippled. Pink blossoms of the redbud tree swayed against the greying sky. A few drops twitched old leaves. Then, for a half hour or forty-five minutes, no more drops fell.
Finally, the rain came in earnest.
It’s still raining now in the wee hours of the morning, a moderate rain.
Mikolas was from Czechoslovakia, back in the day when it was under Soviet control. He had managed to escape to West Germany, and then immigrate to the United States.
Some years after he came to America, his toilet clogged up around two in the morning. Mikolas opened his phone book, and found a plumber who advertised 24 hour emergency service. The plumber dutifully came out and unstopped Mikolas’ toilet with nothing more than a common plunger.
To Mikolas’ amazement, he received by the end of the month a bill for $50, which would be about $225 in today’s money. Mikolas was struck by the genius of the man.
Consequently, Mikolas bought a plunger, and began advertising himself as an emergency 24 hour service. Perhaps a half dozen times a month he would be woken up by a phone call. “This is Mikolas. How may I help you?” If the problem was anything other than a stopped up toilet, he would say, “All of our crews are out on calls at the moment. It will be a few hours wait.” No one would want to wait.
But if the problem was a stopped up toilet, Mikolas would earn $50 that night.
Some years ago, as I recall, a team of social psychologists undertook to study teenage girl’s diaries from the 1950s and 1990s.
They found many similarities, but also that the ’50s diaries significantly mentioned the girl’s concerns with self-improvement. The girls were writing quite a bit about getting better grades, cultivating virtues, such as kindness, and developing their skills, such as sewing.
The ’90s diaries had a different focus. Diets, body-image anxieties, cosmetics, fashions, and what the boys thought of them.
It is arguable that advertising has a greater impact on culture these days than does literature.
Slower thinking in old age? Perhaps not!
A few years ago, a computer simulation of old and young brains by scientists at Tübingen University in Germany suggested that older people might be processing information as fast as younger people — but just more of it. That is, as you age, you have more information to sort through before you can respond to something, which gives the appearance of thinking slower.
The study was conducted in 2014. I have just now finally digested it.
Your task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself you have built against it. — Rumi
“Failures” aren’t failures if you learn from them. They’re progress.
It seems to me there is little or no progress in politics these days.
My second wife was, on her mother’s side, a direct descendant of a samurai — or more properly, in her case, a bushi — family that had been hatamoto to the Tokugawa shogunate. To call her family “samurai”, she told me, would be a demotion in Japanese terms. They were bushi, warriors.
Her family of warriors had at one time owned most of the land that is now southern Tokyo, and they were still quite traditional in some ways, despite that her mother had married an American.
My ex-wife’s grandmother thought that her granddaughter should be raised as a traditionally as possible, and taught her many of the ancient attitudes, skills, and customs, such as what it meant to be bushi, and how to wield the ko-naginata, or women’s pole sword. Since her grandmother was Tomoko’s primary caregiver growing up, Tomoko spoke no more than two dozen words of English until she was 16 and immigrated with her mother and father to the United States.
Tomoko — whose name was spelled uncommonly to reference the “To” in Tokugawa — in many ways retained her grandmother’s teachings into adulthood. Nothing made that clearer to me than the day I wrote my first poem to her.
Until then, I had written exceedingly few poems in my life, and I had kept none of them, so Tomoko had quietly concluded that I simply lacked any inclination or ability to compose poetry. Then, about 12 years after we’d met, and two years into our marriage, I found my poetic voice. Or at least, one of my voices, and I wrote a poem to her.
At the time, I was in the habit of buying her flowers on Fridays and having them delivered to her work, because she worked weekends. So that Friday at the florists, I attached the poem to the flowers. Then I returned to my business, and worked late until perhaps ten or eleven o’clock. When I got home, I was shocked to find Tomoko had been crying.
It was quite unusual for her to cry, and perhaps you can imagine some of the thoughts that immediately ran through my mind when she said she was crying because of the poem! “My god, was it that bad!”, I said, trying to cheer her up. However, she didn’t laugh, but began explaining to me something that in it’s own way shocked me even more than her tears.
I’ve forgotten exactly how she said it, but the gist was that she now regarded me as a “true male”, a real man. That puzzled me, of course, because I was not in the habit of doubting my masculinity, and I had assumed she wasn’t either. But when I got to questioning her, the truth came out.
In her mind, she had never doubted that I was most of the things she expected in a man of her own class, but since I had never shown any inclination or ability to write poetry, she had assumed I was lacking in the one thing left that was necessary to make me a “true male”. A profound sensitivity to what it means to be alive.
For Tomoko, any old male could be, say, brave, because any old male could be dull enough to not feel the intensity of life. How could you call such bravery “true bravery” when all it might amount to is giving up a life you don’t cherish enough anyway? She had never doubted that I was brave enough in that way. But in her view, it took a true male to be brave while yet acutely aware of being alive. My poem had struck her as sensitive enough that I now qualified as capable of feeling life intensely. That is, it wasn’t entirely the poem itself that had moved her, but the intensity of it.
All of this was such foreign thinking to me that my fascination with it almost overwhelmed my shock at realizing she had up until then thought of me as somewhat less than her ideal male. I felt a little resentful that she hadn’t told me any of this before. But that night proved to be the beginning of a change in our relationship.
Tomoko had experienced various forms of abuse during her childhood which had almost certainly left her with a nearly full blown borderline personality disorder.
She was brilliant, and would, say, do calculus problems in her head to stave off boredom during her idle moments, but she couldn’t control her volcanic rages. There is no real cure for BPD, which involves permanent alterations to four areas of the brain, and back then, there was no effective medication nor therapy for it, either.
So her periodic rages never went away, but during the lulls between them now, Tomoko’s respect for me — which had, it turned out, been almost perfunctory by her Japanese standards — profoundly deepened, she displayed an openness to me that hadn’t been there before, and she even became, for the first time, wholly devoted to me.
I wrote a number of other poems to her after that first one, but none of them brought about any such unexpected revelations as that first.