another V graf

                If  it were anyone else’s  deck I  would probably have rolled on the ground laughing, but it was mine, and all I could do was stand and watch it fall in slow motion, thinking: My wife is gonna kill me.  She had just sprung a week’s pay on a new top for the old Spitfire (oh, yeah, the one that lived under the deck) and I thought I would reciprocate by purchasing the largest grill/smoker/global warmer ever constructed outside a Hollywood set.  My reasoning was sound in that if I could make the deck appear smaller than I could expand it (she balked at the cost) to span the breadth of the driveway and double as a carport to protect our (my) cars.  The cost had just quadrupled.  Luckily, the fall was in slow motion, so there were only compression injuries to the Triumph (except the top had met its demise) and the new grill was still remarkably intact and pristine, just wrong side up.  The deck was toast.  Lesson learned?  You betcha.  I think that in order to fully learn there must be three major factors: A specific motivation or curiosity, a plan of action or experiment, and consequences or results.  That may sound like six, but the three dyads are interchangeable.

                The motivation I had is that I wanted a bigger deck, ergo more space to hide cars from ol’ man winter.  Because my wife (aka the voice of reason) would not be persuaded by words alone, I knew drastic measures were called for.  The more space under cover, the more engines and bike and cars can fit so that some day when I retire I will be able to pay someone a lot of money to haul them away.  This is a sickness I don’t wish on Jeffrey Dahmer.  In the military they say “if it doesn’t move, paint it.”  I say, “if it doesn’t move, roll it under some kind of cover until fishing season’s over” So the deck was a way to get what I wanted but couldn’t have on my stupid no-conforming because my neighbor’s a jerk and will rat me out to the planning board lot:  A garage.

 I purchased the Char Griller Professional Series (CGPS). Because my wife and I are both children of the sixties, we love to cook outside.  This is a trait instilled in us by the children of the forties, and hopefully passed on to the children of the eighties until Darwin says this is now genetic.  If I can fit this on the deck it will appear as if the deck has magically become smaller, and also show off the grandeur of the CGPS.  After a few hours of assembly it fit.  Barely.  There was enough room to sidle by the three very large handles, and if you turned just so the door would open and you could get through, besides that it was a good motivation for diets.  My plan of action had come to fruition.

                I’d like to say I don’t want to talk about the consequences, but that would make this a four graf essay and I wouldn’t pass English and I wouldn’t get to be a nurse, so I’ll tell you, but under protest.  The wife was less than impressed, even going so far as to suggest I had paid off the admissions board just to get into community college.  I almost had her agreeing (she had stopped yelling anyway) that the deck needed to be bigger and just about four inches taller as we sat in the lounge chairs I had strategically placed in the driveway when it was time to check the turkey I was smoking.  I only have twelve steps up from ground level, so I can’t blame vibration, but just as I returned to my Pimm’s cocktail in the lounge chair there was a “pop!!”  And then two more.  We looked at each other and back just in time to haul the chairs out of the way.  The whole deck gave a groaning impression of the water tower in F Troop and folded up neatly on itself.  I sprayed water on that brand new grill for about ten minutes, and then rolled it off the rubble.  Upon inspection,  the insurance adjuster decided the deck was a faulty installation and had nothing to do with the CGPS.  Dodged a howitzer.

                So now you know that I am not a smart man, but a lucky one.  The deck was installed prior to my arrival (by my wife’s ex, a never ending source of amusement) and was not a learning experience, as there were no consequences involved for the installer.  The CGPS still functions flawlessly on our new deck (same size thanks to the fascist planning board) And the Spitfire is in a new home with a garage where the fella is welding the doors shut so he won’t be able to use a top anyway.  My plan of action was put to use rebuilding the deck, and my motivation has been emasculated by the loss of many precious motor vehicles since that event two years ago.  The learning I do now has consequences for others, the motivation is altruistic and the plan of action is evidence-based.  Please don’t tell my patients this story as they believe I learn my lessons from books and feel safe around me thinking that.

classification

Classification and Sorting

                I abhor labels.  There is nothing worse than quantifying an individual to suit one’s own small minded need to neatly sort them out with identifiable traits according to someone else’s ideas.  That said, I intend to employ labeling in my daily life in order to perform my duties.  Hypocrite?  Yes, I am.  I will concede that in the situations I will find myself in it will be necessary to sort, evaluate and categorize.  There are four basic groups I will assign to everyone, but for the obvious purpose I will leave out the fourth.  As an Emergency Room nurse I will be performing triage on patients as they arrive into four categories: Minor, Delayed, Major, and Deceased.  I will explain the differences clinically, but there is still an element of judgment involved.

                A Minor casualty is often alert, with minor injuries who is in little danger.  Often called “the walking wounded” these folks are the ones who may actually be called upon to assist in some way if the staff ratio is low.  These are the ones often called “heroes” for their selfless service to others in times of disaster and crisis.  You’ve seen the movies where the guy is bleeding from a gunshot, yet still carries his crippled partner to safety?  That’s them, even if they just fetch water or towels to help, or direct traffic at the scene.  They will be attended to later because they are in no imminent danger.

                The second group, Delayed, require a little more knowledge and skill to label.  This group is usually in some peril, although not immediately life-threatening, and is not able to assist.  These would be the moaning victims lying on a stretcher in the hallway as the handsome doctor in our movie tells the blood soaked hero “we’re out of space here, out of supplies and the victims keep coming in.  Can’t anyone do anything?”  The people on the stretchers continue to moan. The Minor casualty gets some face time as he decides to do something bold.

                The third group is filled with people in serious doo-doo, those who are about to be gone.  These are the ones requiring immediate help to stay alive and are a vast drain on the resources of the young doctor and his nurse.  They would be performing chest compressions while explaining “She’ll die if I can’t get her to a hyperbaric chamber!”  In the background would be a machine with an ominous horizontal red line and an annoying high pitched whine.  Our hero will meet up with his female Minor casualty counterpart and build an armored truck to break through the wall of Zombies, bringing the major casualties with him just as time runs out so they don’t fall into that dreaded Fourth Group.

                In the end, the Delayed group is served by the reinforcements who come and as they are wheeled out with I.V.s in them the doctor says “It’s touch and go, but I think we’re out of the woods.” The Major group wake up and tells their parents they love them, tears streaming down their faces and the Minor group sits in the open back doors of the ambulance, bandaged heads telling us they are lucky to be alive.  The hero is the last to be seen, and he will be “right as rain” in time for the sequel. 

                My mission was to explain triage and the necessity of categorizing.  I believe labeling is necessary in this situation, but we best be careful when we do categorize because it can lead to stereotypes.

outros

Outro1

                So I ask you again; did you catch it?  The squirrel was sent to put you on track and save your paper from mediocrity.  The hole in the wall became your pinpoint focus to winnow your thoughts through, and the uncomfortable chair was your comfort zone.  The Big Rule says write what you know.  I think that means: Know Your Limits.  I will never be conventional in my study habits, but in my profession I have to make decisions with a lot going on so that is what I know and that is how I do it.  Complacency breeds failure, and failure is not an option I will accept.  Writing is an art, and every art form requires some suffering, even if it’s just a bad chair.

Outro 2

                So maybe a thousand monkeys could do better, but they have the edge, being a thousand of them.  Writing is by nature the chronicling of life’s distractions hiding beneath the label of literature.  Do you believe in “the Buffalo Theory” where the herd drops its weakest and slowest by the wayside so the strong may become stronger can apply to writing as well?   The filtering methods I employ may not be for you if you tend to need order and reason to dictate your path, but for me the constant assault on my senses keeps the vibrant tapestry of thought roped in enough to tame.

               

reactions

The best thing about these essays is that the writers all took a different approach and used their own styles, different  but with the same effect.  Most of them drew me in right away, and I found myself genuinely interested, but some did not.  Steven's piece on being laid off hit home with me, so I think there was a premade bias to enjoy that one.  Kevin is a Calvinist, and found that angle many of us slide down this time of year but somehow expressed it rather nicely.  Loved Patsy's opening but I'm a sucker for gotchas.  I think my favorite was Missy's.  I like the Fallout imagery and love the way she spun it around.  There is also something soothing when someone else is not afraid.  I wish I could write like those writers and be able to draw in the reader with one little paragraph, but that's what taking this class is for.

brain (melting) storming

So far I’ve talked to three couples, all married forever.  The men all talk about sex and the women talk about chores.  This is without a doubt the stupidest thing I’ve gotten myself into.  Today.  Calvin thinks a blowjob every other Friday is the secret to eternal love.  Christ, the mental image is enough to turn even my stomach.  B thinks because her hubby mows the lawn when he should that they share “something special” I am not a hopeless romantic by any means and I deal with bodily fluids on a daily basis, so what makes this so hard?  I don’t agree with the responses I’ve been getting, and it pisses me off I can’t just take them at face value.  This has turned into “It’s all about me” instead of a learning experience.  I don’t give a tinker’s damn about grades but I can’t throw together a pile of shit and throw a ribbon on it, either.  Why did I open myself up to this?  I wanted the key to the door and I get Hillbilly Zen responses that aren’t what I expected.  Am I that self-centered to believe I’m the only one or am I just the most fortunate man on Earth to have Love without working for it?  This is the voice of frustration in a primal scream Ginsberg sort of catharsis.  My beliefs about what Love is are being challenged and that forces me to reexamine them.  I should have taken the easy road and done some half-assed piece on trucks or why I shot my television.  What makes me think the answers I get are even remotely connected to what I seek?  What do I seek?  The key to longevity of love and thereby my own intangible monument to myself?  Right now I’m in love with the question mark key.  Saturday is my wife’s birthday and I will surely express my love in many ways, but is it because I want her to know I love her or because I love her?  Am I that insecure?  I remember a line from some movie where the guy asks what love really is and the girl tells him it’s one of those things you figure out too late.

                The couples thing limits it, so maybe I’ll speak to widows and widowers.  I don’t want to fall into a rabbit hole by asking recently divorced: “why?”  Too many raw nerves still there.    Since writing the above paragraph I have gained back a little of my original focus and the realization that yes, this is all about me.  If anyone else learns anything from it that’ll be good, but this is my journey and mine alone.  My mother asked what was up in school and I tactfully avoided this particular subject, giving her a instead a broad overview of my classes.  I wonder what will I do if that hatred factor pops up Wed. when I talk to Pete F.  He was divorced about 35 years ago and happily married since then, but I really don’t want to open old wounds.

                My experience with love is that it is a daily occurrence and not eternal until you are dead.  I am lazy and want to know that my love will last longer than I do.  I don’t care what your definition of love is, as long as it’s close.  Same species, different breed works for me.  How did you find it?  When did you know?  What do you sacrifice for it?  Is it worth dying for?  Is it worth killing for?  What would you do without it?  Does it change over the years?  Are you happy with it?  Does it conquer all?  What if you knew she/he would look like this 50 years later, would you still have fallen in love?  Would you put her out of her misery?  Do you even think about it, or do you take it for granted?  Is sex even involved now?  I know it sounds trite and cute and all, but it’s the one subject I can’t quantify and compartmentalize, so it’s the one I’m going to figure out for my own selfish reasons.

               

intro graf reduex

Intro graph 1

                Did you catch it?  The rustle of the trees outside the window when the Grey Squirrel jumped?  How about the spot on the wall about four inches to the left and just above the monitor where you stuck a tack last year and now it has a hole, staring at you and sucking you in.  Amazing how much your senses become acutely aware of your surroundings When you have to concentrate to write something.  I have a small bedroom in the back of the house I put bookshelves and the computer in on the pretense of studying, complete with what conventional wisdom dictates one needs for effective studying; silence, a stable consistent environment, and the proper tools.  I have found these to be the opposite of what I need.  I require noise and bright lights, an uncomfortable seat and many distractions.

Intro graph 2

                Writer’s block is something that only happens to the most intelligent and able wordsmiths, ones whom Erato and Calliope have decided no longer need their assistance and stop offering up ideas.  These writers have focus and discipline.  I, on the other hand, don’t know what not to write about.  There are so many things that need description and narration it becomes an agonizing choice to find the one thing worthy of spending precious thoughts on.  Ideas are floating all around whispering “try me” until I corral them onto a notepaper where they wail for freedom.  There are several ways to pick a topic for a paper or essay, but the trick for me is to not have a clear focus so only the strongest and best thoughts can break through the corral and get into my head.  Comfort is espoused by those in the know, but I say “malarkey!”  You want to be as uncomfortable as possible to keep your defenses up.  Silence is another fallacy.  Keep a steady stream of white noise (I prefer opera…really loud) to keep your head on a swivel and force yourself to pay attention.  The more distractions the better.  The dog barking across the street, the flickering light, the leaky pen all work in harmony to keep you sharp and on the task at hand.  I may not be much of a writer, but I know what works for me.