Breathing people said.

The Telegraph (UK) published in March a list of twenty ridiculous complaints made by tourists (I presume the British holidaymaker variety). The majority centre around accommodation, animals and perceived bait-and-switch tactics (“the sand in your brochure is white but the actual beach sand is yellow.”) Comments like these are depressingly run-of-the-mill from the mouths of tourists on their first foreign outing. The sorts of people who imagine their vacation destination in terms of a carefully controlled paradise operating on the engine fuel of happy service to the tourists whims; not, God almighty, aware that the dream-land is in fact called by many others as ‘home’ by the Two specifically are walking the line of ludicrous: "There are too many Spanish people. The receptionist speaks Spanish. The food is Spanish. Too many foreigners." and "It's lazy of the local shopkeepers to close in the afternoons. I often needed to buy things during 'siesta' time - this should be banned."

Eulogy

I am terrified that somebody will describe my life better than I lived it.

A weekend in May

This weekend half happened. Yesterday the final parade, Muziekparade, of Tulip Time took place. I napped through it. Saw the new ‘Star Trek’ film (well worth the $6.50). The first class of Summer term went well. The assigned room feels like a prison cell - or, I assume so having not been in a prison cell - but did see a few episodes of ‘Oz.’ Hot, claustrophobic, no ventilation, over-crowded, three hours for the next 13 Saturday mornings. A headache cut short the gym time. Had dinner at Panera, with Steven’s goddamned voice in my head: fat vegetarians eating too many carbs. Tomato soup with croutons, a tomato/mozzarella sandwich with chocolate chip/walnut cookie as dessert. Delicious food accompanied by unfair mental fear-mongering. Took to bed early.

Woke up to blinding sunlight and bird-song. Threw blankets into washing machine, did some perfunctory tidying-up. Critically examining my complexion in the mirror when the idea to drive into Saugatuck popped up. I really need to study Spanish with the Dele now less than a week away. The tourists stop apparently in Saugatuck on their way home from Holland. Out-of-towners swarm the town’s small streets. Didn’t realise that. The tourists mingle with the gay bears. Is it Bear Weekend? Lots of bearded, chubby men walking about - some walking toy dogs. Sitting here since 9a, did lots of studying. Met with a former student turning in some missing work. I’ll submit a grade change later this afternoon. He lives not far from my new house. “It’s probably not up to your standards,” he said describing his Summer English 101 course. I am a tyrant, it seems. Maybe I should take as a compliment former student’s boredom with higher-level courses. Sigh. It’s past 1p. Time to move on, get my ass out of this chair in this cafe, get my feet on the treadmill. I had a cup of the cafe’s organic oatmeal. Lots of fibre and carbs! “Fat vegetarians,” he croons.

Shut up.

Surveys

Last night I had dinner with the Doremire clan (sans mom) and a friend of Adam’s flown in from Seattle... not for this occasion, though. The friend brought up a social geography survey method that gauges the ‘livability’ of American regions, mostly urban to quasi-urban centres. I remember three of the four survey criteria: tolerance, technology, transportation, and something else. Maybe higher education? The implication of the survey is no doubt an arrow in real estate agent’s quiver to justify the $100k tack-on to a loft in San Francisco, but apparently meant to lend a scientific authority for urban relocation away from the small towns and rural landscapes of America. I wouldn’t take a breath for arguing against the awesome appeal of urban living along three to four criteria (plus the hundreds others unmentioned or assumed) and didn’t make an attempt to poke holes in the survey’s methodology or results.

Where I had/have a problem is the cultural chauvinism carried by the survey’s results and replicated in the voice of my fellow dinner guest. I bristled at the unspoken but impossible-to-miss judgement made about living, voluntarily and of sound mind, in Holland. Based on the survey’s criteria, Holland cannot possibly be a satisfactory incubator of talented creative people; the city (if the survey’s advocates would even allow the c-word applied) lacks [unspecified] tolerance, reliable and penetrative mass transit, and high technology firms. Holland comes out at best an interesting backwater, a pleasant tourist destination for Middle Americans and at worst a lockstep Christian identity recruiting pasture saturated with Dell laptops and American sedans. My problem with this came out of Adam’s friend assuming that small cities in provincial areas of the Rust Belt cannot produce or attract talented, creative, intellectual, multi-cultural people; further, that these small cities actively repel / discourage that development. What made me most uncomfortable was the anti-intellectual foundation of this comparison. It assumed, in Holland’s specific case, that easily-defended stereotypes from 15 years ago exist in the same form and ferocity in 2009. It also, in a back-handed sort of way, seemed a personal insult in my deciding to buy a home here. Adam, a bit later, acknowledged my irritation of the argument in an even-handed way but prodded me to continue my response. The bastard. What choice did I have.

Lunatics and civic events

Flowers attract bees. Tulips attract artists. Tulip Time attracts lunatics and tourists... the two groups invariably coming into contact, drawn by the same signal. This year’s festival keeps the human calculus in balance. Lemonjello’s swarms with fat tourists wearing pastels and floral prints collected in table-clusters pouring over maps, mispronouncing place names. The lunatics buzz around the tourist’s periphery working in odd orbits. I avoid eye-contact with the lunatics and tourists alike. They might take an inadvertent gaze as an invitation for communication. To chat. No no. I forgot the earphones, oh no. A Korean boy with a full size red bass guitar stands outside the door, peering inside wondering.... wondering I can’t imagine. Go away.

It breaks one’s heart to see a 40-something sweat in a green polo at 65 degrees hold court with an un-medicated psychotic selling “custom” music CDs.

Competition

The Tulip Time 5k/8k run took place in a track very close to my future residence. I didn’t know about the race before seeing the PDF map on the festival’s website. 5k, hmmm... Every day at the gym I run 2 miles. 2.25 if the morning’s coffee lingered in the blood. Last week I survived the 2.5 mile point. Anyway, these distances aren’t too much removed from 5 kilometres. Race day but I didn’t participate. Running a race adds the element of competition I’ve not yet contended with; at the gym, I compete with myself and the boredom of staring into a car park. And the treadmill is, you know, inside a climate-controlled environment. Running the distance seemed entirely plausible but the context supplied the wrench. While I didn’t run this race, the idea remains an entertaining one to.... uh, entertain. I saved the 5k race track map. When I can run 5k on the treadmill then maybe the outdoors version will be the new goal.

In related news, the scale reads 150lbs. Almost skinny!

Choices

Two years back, the University of Missouri published a paper about human cognitive processes when viewing web pages. The research shows that when the eyes have fewer images to absorb on a single page correlates to increased focus to content. Participants ‘engaged’ the material, reading more closely, contemplated implications and in general understood the content better. Additionally, they were less likely to browse away from the page. Not withstanding meta-content such as chat windows, Facebook or iTunes, the research concludes that fewer distractions lead to increased concentration. That may seem like a ‘no shit, Sherlock’ situation but the implications are noticed in contexts outside of reading web pages, specifically making choices. Popular belief is that as options in a given situation increase the better-considered the the ultimate choice. In other words, quality of results rises with increased sample size. A person shown 5 possible vacation destinations versus 10 possibilities absorbs the increased criteria and as a result makes the best possible final decision. The Missouri research takes some of this popular wisdom and turns on its ear. The consequence of many options is often paralysis. The greater the options, the worse aptitude for a timely and wise choice. Ten vacation possibilities offered will put pressure on the chooser to make a ‘wise’ decision that ultimately forces the person to rely on stereotype and assumption, not well-reasoned, well-researched conclusions. Of course time is an important factor -- the more time one has to sift through options, the more likely a ‘better’ decision will result -- given that the person, you know, uses the time wisely. The time variable looms large and easily ignored in the consideration of choice/decision. We commonly call this ‘procrastination’: viz., “the paper due date is 2 weeks from now... so I have at least 12 days to ignore it.” Anyway, the point that I take from these phenomena is that one most foreclose/shut certain options/doors to make a better decision. I’ve run up against this dilemma in varying situations but most pertinent is whether to enter a PhD program and whether to buy a house.

Exhibit A, the reliable and impenetrable shield deployed to beat back the battery of arguments and remonstrations from friends and colleagues, against buying a house is The Future PhD. They called my attitude “ridiculous,” and “financially inept.” How can I buy a house in this economic climate, I volley? Prices and interest rates are historically low, so right now is the best time to buy, they say. Right! We work in automotive. Layoffs, furloughs, Chrysler bankrupt. What sane person plunges into a mortgage --- especially their first? I answer my own question: the kinds of people who buy coastal property during a Hurricane warning. People who mock logic. Dangerous lunatics. They say I’ve kept the job for nearly 10 years and survived by far the worst, so why stay on the sidelines? A mortgage, though! A 30 year financial commitment. I’ve been alive that long. My mind reels at attempting to wrap around the idea of a 30 goddamned year contract. Yes, they say, but nobody says you stay in the house for that long. The market rebounds, which it always does, and then you sell at a profit. Ah-hah! But what of those who were caught out in that same line of thinking when the market tanked? Well, obviously there are highs and lows... this is a low. They move in for the kill: their loss is your gain. Jesus, I think. It’s a parasitic life span. Look, though; the terrible Exhibit A winches into the open: how can I get into any PhD programs if I’m anchored to a house in Holland? Ahhh... the Missouri choice survey rears its head and I tremble.

Entering a doctoral program loomed, nay dominated, my vision of the future since 2005 at least. Early into the relationship with Mark, I remember telling him that I had no plans to remain in Holland specifically and West Michigan in general. WMU accepted me that summer and I prepared to enter into the mysterious world of graduate work. I also secretly cringed at the denial of doctoral admission at University of Chicago (see previous post). The two year MA @ WMU acted as a step, a half-step necessary to take between the BA and PhD. I hope you’re willing to move in two years, Mark. We broke up during my first teaching semester. Teaching fulfilled. The happiest hours of my day were those in the classroom, at the chalkboard. When the MA ended the domino next to fall was quitting JCI and entering a PhD program. 12 rejection letters and no falling domino. Remain in Holland. Remain with JCI. Waves of urge to quit the job and move, abandon, renounce, crash headlong into Chicago crested and broke in daily and weekly frequencies. Financial prudence kept my feet on Dutch soil and internet browser... other places. On our first date, I told Steven my impatience for leaving this Michigan area and into the arms of Bloomington, Chicago, Madison, or whichever wonderful city would take me. He made his disdain for this area apparent and behold we shared a bias that would be built upon... too much. He did basic research on MBA programs at similar schools. How great if we both land at the same university, albeit different programs? Great, obviously. University budgets fell into abyss, departments admitted ever fewer candidates and job searches (well documented, if semi-apocryphal and hysterical) cancelled in the majority of states. We broke up during my second year of teaching, first year at a different institution; the chalk dusted love affair continued uninterrupted. No doctoral applications filled out, no English department websites investigated. Paging Doctor Martin. Are you in the building?

The goal of working, earning a PhD is to teach full time. In colleges. Adults, not children. Kids make me homicidal. The PhD is the stepping stone means enabling this end. Four year institutions won’t consider MA/MS holders for full time positions. The community/2 year colleges picked up this trend in the last decade or so. And who can blame them? The labour pool of successful doctoral candidates can drown an elephant. That means it’s deep. A deep pool. Why then would any institution of higher education ‘stoop’ to taking on the lowly Master’s peoples? Answer, they don’t. Those folks are hired at part time, little to zero benefits. That’s me. Here’s the thing. JCI supplies income and benefits -- GRCC kicks in teaching experience and income. Two jobs, dual-income and existential wonders. Teaching at the College reduced, by a lot, the desire to get into a doctoral program. Again, the overwhelming thrust (sorry) of getting PhD is teaching full time. Well, teaching part time has been a fucking blast at this institution. JCI continues to decline laying me off. It was a month ago that the PhD shield against the arguments to (in the ready made idioms), “settle down” or “plant roots” in Holland came to resemble a dollar store fly-swatter than a iron-clad logical Pentagon. That sentence may not be sensible.

So it came to pass (sorry - again! - to Tolkien) that the choice of applying to doctoral programs was taken off of the table. Holding out for an uncertain future doesn’t make sense anymore (but it sure did for a looooooong time). I couldn’t rationalise a position highly dependent upon unknowns either to myself or to those around me. But this is important. The closing (or mostly shutting) of the doctoral option forces me to much more closely examine the options remaining over, say, the next five years. And these options are pretty fucking good, I may say. Once my brain accepted the logic of living right now instead of pausing for the future, the decision to buy a house was ludicrously easy to make. Closing happens this month. The list of housewarming invitees needs writing.