The Picture of E.R. Dunhill

It’s been a good long while since I’ve done any writing of consequence. By this, I don’t mean to suggest that what I was writing over the summer changed the world, but rather that what I wrote was an effort to change my world. I can deflect the blame for little and poor writing to all of the distractions that take place on the other side of the blog, but this seems disingenuous.
It seems now, maybe as the result of evolution, or maybe the simple realization of something that has been true from the beginning, that my MO for writing this blog is not what I'd like it to be. I’ve been keeping the reader at arms-length by neglecting writing much about what I think.
A few words from Emerson have been with me the last two months as I relocated a few miles down the road from where I used to live.

To go into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his chamber as from society. I am not solitary whilst I read and write, though nobody is with me.

I increasingly wonder if perhaps the underlying premise of this thought is flawed. The problem of society may in truth be with the self, in which case, a man must retreat from his own mind and practice in order to find some improved state. I have been endeavoring to do this by reading new perspectives and trying to craft for myself a philosophy, a calling, perhaps. When I have that all figured-out, I’ll let you know.
As I’ve looked around over the last few weeks, I think this place, Phrenology, requires a change, too. More on that, later.

The roses

Despite having convinced myself that I had no time between studying finance, packing boxes for the move, and preparing for a Thursday meeting, Wednesday evening I attended a reception at the Smithsonian American Art Museum.
I didn’t get much time to look at any exhibits beyond the vicinity of the reception, but the venue itself is fantastic.
American Art shares (as it has for some time) the old US Patent Office Building with the National Portrait Gallery. The Greek Revival building was recently renovated to add a great deal of color and a sense of movement. Reopened this summer, the space is worth a visit in and of itself.
The event was for me a good reminder to stop and smell the pinot grigio and wild mushroom tarts.

Simple machines

The hill in front of the split timber and stone kitchen is covered with shiny SUV’s, rusty but usable cars, and a couple of minibuses. At the edge of the parking area, two feral boys with mud in their hair crouch over a rickety fire drill. Beyond them, a man who is a dead-ringer for Rip van Winkle talks to a smiling young woman while she unpacks a frame backpack. Everywhere, the air is permeated by the scent of the big fire being prepared for wet clay pots, just beyond the clearing.
I amble up to the big tent with the banner that reads “MAPS Meet Registration” (that’s the Mid-Atlantic Primitive Skills group). The woman at the registration table tells me that she’s too busy to sign me in, but that I’m welcome to set-up my tent and come back after breakfast. As I head toward the camping area, I pick-up a copy of the weekend’s events: talks on fire-building, herbal remedies, tool-making, and primitive cooking, among others.
Over the morning meal, there are conversations about work, globalization, politics, and the environment. Once everyone is fed, there is a round of announcements, before the crowd diffuses to their respective demonstrations and classes.
It’s at the primitive shelter talk, where a congressional-staffer, her two sons, and a handful of college students gather to learn about fires an lean-tos, that I first make the connection: This event is part of an information system.
Indeed the compulsion to both seek and distribute information seems as old as the technologies of fire, flint, and fiber. Each of the presenters at this event are elements of a database that potentially spans large expanses of time and geography. In teaching, they are at once networking this knowledge and creating redundancy within the system. This act increases the reach of the network and helps to ensure that the information will not be lost as various elements fail.
I had laughed at the irony of registering for the event and paying via the WWW. What were people who light fires with sticks and milkweed twine doing with DSL? In spending the weekend among these teachers and learners, I’ve found that the differences between skinning one’s hands on pieces of flint and writing a blog are mostly cosmetic.

Cardinal directions

A little red bird lights on an empty flowerpot next to the sliding glass door that opens my kitchen to the garden and a small stand of trees. For reasons that I don't understand, he looks into my house and eagerly launches himself, rapping at my kitchen door until my dogs chase him away. Sometimes he comes back a few minutes later and sometimes he waits until tomorrow, but he always comes back.
His gaudy feathers remind me of all of the graduation regalia I saw arranged around a cake last night with my wife. Her friend's oldest daughter just earned a diploma and a celebration.
Elizabeth, the graduate, is pensive and creative. Both are traits that run in the family. I don't know her well, but I like her. She is an excellent student, is active with her faith community, and seems grounded, but like a lot of people her age, doesn't yet know which way she is headed.
I identify with the graduates. Sure, I roll my eyes a little at how they dress and have to listen intently to divine the meaning of certain words they use (I still contend that I'm not that much older), but I've stumbled back into a similar place. Two years ago, I was certain of where I was going and was well on my way toward getting there. I was in a demanding job, doing interesting work, and had skipped some of those aggravating steps that usually come early in one's career. The long hours and urgent phone calls at home wore out their welcome, as did the pay that advanced at a glacial pace, as compared with the conflagration of new duties.
What I see now is that my way was like the little bird's. He perceives his course as straight and certain, but the place he seeks is confining, maybe dangerous, and for his part a poor fit. He's gone away again, but to where, I don't know.