Thursday, September 27, 2007
Assorted
Fran here. I've been rising in the deep darkness -- 4:00 AM -- seven days a week for more years than I can count. I've developed a certain fondness for it, and only now and then do I muse over the reasons.
The original reason for these insane hours was beating Long Island's legendary rush hour traffic. That's hardly in play, these days; the roads are already quite full by 5:15 AM, which is my target for leaving the house. Nor are they any picnic at 3:30 PM, when I normally leave my office and trundle on home. But I can't bring myself to change my circadian at this point, and an old man's inertia is only one of the reasons.
The other reason is the silence.
The world is utterly silent when I rise. It remains that way until I've embarked. Despite the traffic, there's even a silent quality to the roads during my morning commute. I never play the radio in the mornings; that would spoil the experience completely.
Silence allows you to hear yourself. It elicits the long thoughts, the quirky meanderings of mind for which the bustle of the later hours would leave no room. It permits you to converse with yourself in a pleasant, unhurried tone, just you and...well, you unscrewing the inscrutable over English muffins and coffee.
There was more space for silence when I was a lad. I used to walk great distances through the forests of Dutchess County, for no other reason than to savor the solitude and the silence. But those forests have been greatly reduced, and here on Long Island there isn't anything like them. Perhaps there never was.
We need many things, we humans of Twenty-First Century America. I think we need a lot more silence than we usually get, and are less conscious of the shortfall than we ought to be. But I don't know how to redress it. Do you?
I'm in a strange mood today. For one thing, I'm unusually conscious of the gulfs between me and those around me. It's not an entirely comfortable feeling.
I work among persons who qualify for the 99th percentile of the American intelligence distribution. Every one of my colleagues is a proven achiever, a winner in the labor market. Almost to a man, they're well educated, thoughtful, and capable of telling good logic from bad. That doesn't keep me from wondering how they can be so ignorant and naive.
Today, it was with some effort that I resisted the urge to entangle myself in a discussion of socialized medicine. Six of my colleagues embroiled themselves in it, three for and three against, discussing the issue as if it weren't a settled matter. I listened for more than twenty minutes, barely able to restrain myself. None of the parties to the exchange were aware of the failure of socialized systems to date -- all socialized health care systems to date.
The exchange ground down without anyone adducing any evidence in support of his position. I had to ask myself why. Don't any of them know the history of government-controlled medicine? If one does, does he think evidence is irrelevant to the matter, or did he expect logic alone to carry the day?
The gulf between the well-informed and the uninformed is wider and more treacherous than that between the bright and the ordinary. It might be the most important of all the chasms freedom lovers seek to bridge. But to assert that one knows anything in an objective sense -- that there are important facts freely available to anyone who might want them -- is regarded today as intolerably conceited and demanding at the same time. Who are you to tell anyone that he should learn something before he starts running his mouth, anyway?
O my people! O my city!
On the way home from work, I normally listen to an all-news radio station. Today, one of the topics of interest was airport congestion, and the exaggerated delays that congestion has imposed on air travelers these past few years.
It would seem obvious that the problem is greatly magnified by the inefficient administration of the airports and the terminal control areas around them. Yet the radio personalities who discussed the matter were completely uninterested in any solution other than a government-imposed one. The only market-based approach anyone offered was congestion pricing for takeoffs and landings.
What about expanding the supply of air routes, ingress and egress times by privatizing airports and air traffic control? What about a federal law that would allow airport owners to impose monetary penalties on airlines that deliberately overbook or over-schedule? Not a word.
Mind you, this subject is now a frequent feature of debates at the federal level. Obviously, enough people have complained to prick a few highly placed ears. But the trend in thinking on the matter is so grooved, so hopelessly married to coercive approaches, that few persons are able to see the obvious ways out of the box.
Sigh. Another blind spot. Another gulf.
Not everything is politics or political economy, even for one such as myself who's deeply immersed in both. Now and then, more intimate considerations intrude.
The C.S.O. and I are about to move Anya, our youngest, into her very first apartment -- shared with another young woman, a graduate student like herself -- and we're slowly coming to the realization that we're not ready for it.
No, it's not empty-nest syndrome; it's the financial shock. When we moved into the Fortress of Crankitude, it cost me approximately $150 for everything involved...apart from the cost of the house itself, of course. But moving Anya, a mere slip of a girl with relatively few possessions, is likely to cost triple or quadruple that amount.
Why? Well, the dear girl has two prize possessions she absolutely must have in her new home -- and they're not tchotchkes. One is a massive desk we bought for her about a year ago; the other is an even larger and heavier bed.
Anya is moving a whole four miles away. Does it sound like a short move? I suppose it is, as such things are measured. But it's a bit farther than I'd want to carry her desk and bed. These items will have to be disassembled, packed into a panel truck, driven to the new apartment, and reassembled.
I'm quite strong. I bench-press 300 pounds, and have no problem carrying large or heavy objects. But strength isn't the only relevant asset. Since I was about 45, my hands have shaken rather badly. No, I don't know why, and neither does my doctor. Anyway, disassembling Anya's bed and desk is the first step in transporting them, and it's a step I'm unable to address. Also, when the pieces get where they're going, they'll have to be reassembled, which I'm equally unsuited to doing. So I'll have to hire all that done.
I'll also have to hire a panel truck.
Probable cost of this adventure: about $500.
I'll pay for it. The alternative involves sleeping in my car for a week or so. But I can't help thinking that this particular aspect of the separation trauma used to be a whole lot cheaper.
It appears that "http://MoveAnya.Org" is still available. Do you think...? Naah, silly idea. Forget I said it.
Earlier today, I wandered over to my secret love the Anchoress's dive. and found this intriguing exchange:
FATHER RUTLER: I have met saints. You cannot explain the existence of saints without God. I was nine years chaplain with Mother Teresa [inaudible]. You have called her a whore, a demagogue. She’s in heaven that you don’t believe in, but she’s praying for you. If you do not believe in heaven, that’s why you drink.CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS: Excuse me?
FATHER RUTLER: That’s why you drink. God has offered us happiness, all of us. And you will either die a Catholic or a madman, and I’ll tell you the difference.
In sequel to which, dear Anchoress asked, "What is the difference between a madman and a Catholic? I dearly want to know…I have an inkling that it has something to do with potential and intent. I hope someday Fr. Rutler spells it out."
No need to wait for Father Rutler, dear, I shall tell you myself.
A madman senses the unseen world, wilfully denies what his senses have told him, and slowly departs from reality in response to the pressures of the cognitive dissonance.
A Christian senses the unseen world, infers from it the overpowering love of God for His Creation, leaps from there to the acceptance of the Gospels as historically accurate, and elects a life of praise and gratitude as the only proper response.
A Catholic is a Christian who burns votive candles, reads about the lives of the saints, and prays the Rosary.
You're welcome.
I am tired.
I don't know to what extent it comes across, but I'm an old man whose energies are failing him. The demands of my trade are no less than they've ever been. In some ways they're greater, because of my record of accomplishments; everyone expects me to produce miracles to order. In consequence, I come home with less energy and initiative with which to meet my domestic obligations and service the readers of Eternity Road. No one remains a world-beater all the way to the grave, so I suppose this is something I should have expected. Still, it's a bit irritating that I can no longer produce an essay a day that would meet my earlier standards. Irritating...but there's nothing much I can do about it.
I opened Eternity Road's doors to co-contributors in the hope that they'd help me to sustain the site, which about 300 persons per day visit. It hasn't worked out; my co-contributors have produced far less, and far more sporadically, than I'd hoped.
Thoughts?
