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Paradigm Shifting

It struck me today that I need to change my perspective.

I am still thinking like an employed person. True, I still am employed, but not for much longer. In fact, I only have fifteen more days of employment; three business weeks before I am retired. Yet, when looking ahead and planning, I still, to a great extent, fall into the decades-long habit of planning around my workday responsibilities. Is it a school night? Then I can’t stay up ’til 2AM gaming with my crew. Am I on call? Then thank you, no, to the second whisky. How much will travel time eat into my week off?

Case in Point: Dune: Part Two.

For a long time, now, I have not enjoyed going to the cinema. Aside from the jarring juxtaposition of watching an adaptation of a Regency drama with distant gunfire and muffled explosions bleeding through from the multiplex theater next door, I find the experience over-loud, over-priced, and chock-a-block with people who are—more often than I care to admit—rude, inconsiderate, and entirely capable of ruining my movie-going experience.

So, though all my friends are raving about how good D:P2 is, I’ve been steeling myself for the long wait until it hits a streaming service and then comes out on disc (I’ll be watching the three movies annually, once I have them all at hand). I mean, why test my tolerance by braving the cinema along with the crowds that will also want to see it on any given weeknight or weekend day?

But today, I realized how silly and outdated that perspective is. In three weeks, I’ll be retired. Next month, there’s no reason I can’t’t go to the cinema mid-week, midday (along with all the other old folks). I might even get a senior discount. I’ll still have to contend with SFX sound bleeding in from the theater next door, but I’m thinking that won’t be as big an issue with D:P2 as it might otherwise be.

To be honest, I’ve missed the cinema experience, at least the way it used to be. My sister and I, ages ago, went in a gang to a “Weekend of Epics” in Petaluma, where we saw, back to back: The Bible, Ben-Hur, Cleopatra, and Lawrence of Arabia. It was an all-day event, over thirteen hours of screen time (plus intermissions and meal breaks). And it was a gas, because the only people in attendance were movie nerds who were totally into the immersion of watching old movies in a darkened theater. No teens on dates. No young couples with crying babies. Just folks who were willing and able to devote nearly sixteen straight hours to a movie-going experience.

I don’t ever expect to capture that feeling again, but if there’s even a chance of feeling a fraction of that magic, I’ll risk the disappointment.

k

Forever Thursday

I find myself in a liminal space, straddling one of modern life’s boundaries, not half-in/half-out, but between and neither, caught mid-transformation.

With three weeks to go until my retirement, I’m not really working at work, but I’m also not really not working. Not quite working; not quite retired. Every day feels like Thursday (even today, a Friday), and by that I mean that each day feels like the weekend is about to start, but isn’t quite ready to throw the switch. Every day is Weekend Eve Eve.

At work, management is purposefully not giving me anything to do (well, nothing that can’t be done in an hour, anyway)—a bit of a gift after 33 years with the company—so I’m doing a lot of ho-humming during my work day. My replacement is making the transition from her old team to ours, and I will be able to assist in that, but she’s actually a former member of our team who is returning to the fold, so there’s little with which she’ll need my specific assistance.

As for retirement readiness, the requisite forms have been filled out/submitted/received, our new insurance is ready to take over, our many ducks are waiting patiently in their row.

All is in readiness.

Yet, I am anxious. Nervous. Jittery. At loose ends. Unable to focus. Wanting to start, but without the time to do so.

The weather has not helped. Here in Seattle, spring started off early but quickly realized it forgot something on the stove and had to run home, giving winter another month to hang around and raid the fridge. It’s as if my world is holding its breath.

And yet, all around me, furious activity. Kids play in the street, dogs get walked. Orders are delivered, trash is collected. Speeches are made and votes are cast. Wars and negotiations drag on. Babies are being born, changing couples into parents, parents into grandparents.

Yet, here I am in my chrysalis, waiting to emerge.

When I do,  what will I be?

k

Drifting

the percussive exuberance
of K-drama dialogue
drifts down the darkened hall
a cryptic lullaby in
rollercoaster tones
leading me past
anxious abstraction
to plush midnight


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Talkabout

From the Old Man Shouts Into the Wind files, Entry #4492.

[Entry Begins]

A few years ago I received an invitation to be interviewed on a podcast. It wasn’t a big-deal podcast, just a couple of guys who nattered on about books, but I’d never done an audio interview (my previous ones had all be text-based for print publications), so I responded and we began to set it up. It didn’t take long for me to realize that this was not going to be an “interview” interview, but something entirely different.

My first clue came when I asked which of my books they wanted to discuss (I had two series and one standalone novel at the time). The answer—and I’m paraphrasing here—was, “Oh, we don’t know anything about any of your books.” In essence, it was not an interview, but a time slot in which I could hold forth and flog my books.

Some people are good at this type of thing. Some people are really good at it. And good for them! It’s a valuable skill in this “Look at Me!” age of influencers and TikTok stars, where publishers (if you are lucky enough to have one) put little (if any) money into marketing non-premium titles, and most of the promotional setup and execution has to be done by the author.

Sadly, I am not one of those people. I am so definitely not one of them, that I decided not to participate. I’m sure that podcast audience got along just fine.

I relate this anecdote as prologue, because from that day to this I have noticed a distinct trend in interviewing style, and it’s one that (in my opinion) severely diminishes the form. It’s what I call the “Talkabout” style.

At its heart, an interview is a conversation. Interviewer asks a question and Interviewee responds. This leads to another question and another response. Interviewer at some point will switch to another topic, and they begin anew. This question and response interplay can lead to deeper insights, as the interviewer builds on Answer #1 in forming Question #2, exploring the topic more fully. This technique works especially well in adversarial interviews, where it drifts from the conversational toward a more debate-like vibe, and the questioner can drill down into responder’s answers.

The “Talkabout” style, on the other hand, is not a conversation; it’s performance on demand. The host (not “interviewer”) greets the guest and says, “Talk about your latest [insert topic element here].” There is no question. There is no “If you would” or “Please.” It’s merely a time slot in which the guest can hold forth, a command behind a conversational facade. It is an “interview-shaped object.” Once the guest has finished talking about the thing, there is no follow-up question; instead, the host gives their opinion of the guest’s opinion or merely regurgitates what the guest delivered using different words. This is usually followed by another “talk about” demand. It is not an interview.

There are times when an interviewer will ask the guest to explain something to the audience (a movie’s premise, the context of an essay, a brief history of a political situation, etc.) and this is acceptable (to me) because context is important, and it’s better if it is the guest/expert who provides that perspective. After that, though, an interviewer will return to questions, whereas the “talkabout” host will not.

I know this is not likely to change, primarily because of the way most of us consume news and opinion, i.e., it tiny tiny bites. Many don’t read past the headlines, and certainly won’t read past Question/Answer #1 to get the deeper insight of Question/Answer #2. I also know that my personal sensibilities are outdated, and that while I bristle at what I perceive as a lazy, sloppy, borderline rude method to elicit information without breaking the surface tension of any given topic, it is for others perfectly acceptable.

But maybe some will read this, see something they hadn’t noticed before, and seek out sources that provide a deeper analysis or insight into a given question.

An interview is only as good as the interviewer, and just as the ability to write does not make us all good writers, so too, the ability to speak does not make us all good interviewers. For my part, I’ll seek out the person who asks a question, and then another, and then another, diving deeper each time into the why or the how of a topic. It takes more time, yes, but if I want to understand rather than merely parrot, it is incumbent upon me to spend it.

[Entry Ends]

 

Childhood’s End

at the last bell of the last day
we slammed closed our books
kicked off our school-year shoes
and soared on summer wings
up into our beloved hills
our youth’s true home
to live beneath brooding oaks
dance along moss-slick creeks
and walk barefoot through grass
made of spun gold



I grew up at the edge of a newly-minted suburb. Clean-lined bungalows sat contentedly behind manicured lawns, all surrounded by hills yet untouched, crisscrossed only by trails of deer, coyote, and vole. My friends and I, we lived up in those hills all summer (and much of the calendar’s remaining months), hiking the golden ridges, exploring hidden creeks and sudden glens, prospecting for pyrite, searching shell mounds for arrowheads, observing birds and wildlife, fashioning weapons from pampas fronds, and committing not a little bit of trespassing as we traversed private (and military) land.

Almost all of that time, we were barefoot. The soles of our feet, softened during the school year, toughened up quickly in June, protecting us from the live oaks’ thorny leaves, while our unshod toes gripped rocks either slick or jagged. Shoes, for us, were a nuisance; easily lost, frequently forgotten, they stole our sure-footedness and rarely survived the summer intact.

Going barefoot has been a hallmark of my life ever since. Around the house, puttering in the garden, walking beaches, summer winter spring autumn, I have almost always been barefoot (okay, I wore socks in winter).

And it looks like that’s going to have to change.

A couple of months ago, I injured my Achilles tendon. Nothing serious like a rupture, but badly enough that it often forces me to modify my gait or take stairs like an octogenarian.

My standard “walk it off” method of treatment did not work; if anything, it was made worse. Neither did resting it help (but how much can you actually rest your foot?). This past month I started employing a more aggressive course of treatment—heat, ice, massage, NSAIDs, compression, elevation, light exercise—which has helped, but there were still bad days when it ached and ached all the way up into my calf or kept me up at night. Finally, I discovered something that really seemed to help.

I put on a pair of shoes.

I work from home, and really only go out to run errands (as a 100% introvert, my social life is . . . sparse). Shoes were for going out in public, for heavy garden work, and for taking walks on paved surfaces.

Now, they’re for everything. Like going to the kitchen.

I am not happy about this.

Achilles tendon injuries like mine can take six months or more to improve, so I’m hoping that in time I’ll be able to return to the patterns of my barefoot youth. However, seeing as how I’m no longer a skinny, bendable adolescent but rather a thick-waisted and mostly sedentary senior citizen, no guarantees.

Still . . . fingers crossed.

k

Ages

I am not the man
I used to be
not in any sense

I have been rebuilt
a half dozen times
sloughing off my past
for a new shell

Top to toe
each atom
each molecule
has been replaced
like parts under warranty

I raise my refurbished hand
to shade my eyes and
sunlight fires my flesh
with light aeons old

But the iron in my blood
the carbon in my bones
though new to me
predate this blazing sun

My ever renewing form
is a gift from dying stars
birthed of elements
roared into being
at the genesis
of the universe itself

Pathways

I have walked

From land to land and star to star
I have walked

Through lifetimes and histories unwritten
I have walked

Learning living loving leaving
One place one life one breathless moment
For the next
I have walked

Though not alone
For with each step each thought each dream-built notion
Through crepe-hung heartaches and clean-scented joys
To lead to follow or simply to be
There has been you

We
We have walked