the cricket rocker

life • mystery • wonder • times • technology • education

[cricketrocker]

A Year Talking to Robots (but Learned Several Things About Being Me)

I did not begin this year with the intention of having long, reflective conversations with machines. I am a dubiously responsible adult, a university technology leader, a father, and a person who buys more books and violent video games than he has free time. I do not, as a rule, wake up thinking, Today seems like a good day to consult a probabilistic text generator about the future of learning and the ethical formation of undergraduates.  Or about the future of me, for that matter.

And yet.

Somewhere between dire budget meetings, faculty technology workshops, and explaining—again—that “no, the AI cannot legally read your private meeting notes,” I found myself opening up to exactly that. Repeatedly. Voluntarily. Sometimes eagerly. Which, in hindsight, probably says more about the year than any productivity metric ever could. Give me the implant.  Why not?  Give it to me now.

The year, for the record, was about artificial intelligence and I suppose authentic intelligence and also I suppose about a little bit of achy insight into what we’ve lost and are losing and getting to know what’s on the horizon. Ostensibly. But mostly it was about judgment, responsibility, and the dawning realization that efficiency is a very persuasive liar.  Or maybe liars are just very persuasive.  See?

The Rise of the Thinking Machine and the Fall of Any Easy Answers

At first, everyone wanted to know what these tools could do. Could they write? Summarize? Analyze? Replace? Enhance? Destroy civilization as we know it?

These are understandable questions. They are also the wrong ones.  As Dr. Airaudi once said, “we are standing on the whale and fishing for minnows.”  I think he was quoting Joseph Campbell, who I think was referring to a Polynesian proverb.

Because once the novelty wore off, my real question became less what can this do and more what are we now tempted to stop doing ourselves.  Or start doing.  Really. Thinking, for example. Or teaching students, or ourselves, how to struggle productively, nobly. Or admitting when we don’t actually know any answers but are willing to find out together.  Or admitting that not knowing might be our greatest knowing.  We are standing on GPT, still failing to grasp Yeats.  “…those were pearls that were his eyes.”  Look it up.  I dare you.

But yeah, this year was when AI stopped being a technology problem and became a universal character test.  BTW, have you ever asked ChatGPT to assess your character?  Don’t do it.

Detection: A Brief, Ill-Advised Love Affair

There was a phase—mercifully brief—when many people believed AI detection tool magic would save us. These tools promised certainty in a confusing world, much like astrology, but with dashboards.  We believed that the technology people could provide the answers, or at least some succor.

They (oh yes) did not, as it turns out, save anything, or us.

What they (oh yes) mostly did was remind us that outsourcing judgment is still outsourcing judgment, even if the AI vendor brochure uses words like “insight” and “confidence interval.” Eventually, we all noticed that the tools were very sure about things they were not actually right about, which is the most dangerous kind of wrong.  Well, almost.

So, quietly, without a ceremonial bonfire, we move on.  Just silence and embers.

Instead of trying to catch students doing something, we started asking why what we were doing (assignments) made that something (uh oh) attractive in the first place. The year was rough. Instead of policing impossible outputs, I tried to redesign processes. Instead of surveillance, I attempted building out trust—with structure, clarity, and expectations, but still trust.

This was less efficient. It was also more instructive.

The Coalition of the Willing (No Matching Jackets, Sadly)

One of the better ideas this year was to stop trying to convince everyone at once and instead gather the curious, the cautious, and the quietly skeptical into a loose but actual coalition. I did not demand enthusiasm. I did not require ideological (or any) purity. I mostly asked people to show up, try things, and talk honestly about what happened.

What emerged was not consensus but a fragile new literacy.

People learned where AI helped and where it flattened thinking. Where it saved time and where it tempted shortcuts. Where it opened creative neural pathways and where it quietly replaced the hard work that learning actually requires.  Like reading The Wasteland.

This is, incidentally, how universities are supposed to work: not by issuing decrees, but by cultivating discernment. It turns out discernment does not scale well in spreadsheets, but it ages beautifully.  Like me.  Relatively.

Vendors, Velocity, and Admiring a Courage to Apply the Brakes

The market, meanwhile, remains enthusiastic. Very enthusiastic. Every tool promises transformation. Every demo suggests urgency. Every sales call implies that if we did not act immediately, our institution would be left behind, presumably wandering the academic wilderness with only chalk and overhead projectors.

What this year taught me is that speed is not a value. It is a condition. And sometimes it is a condition best treated with rest.

Some of the most important leadership moments involved saying, “Not yet,” “Show me the data stewardship plan,” or “Let’s talk about FERPA before we talk about features.” These are not crowd-pleasers. They do not appear on our t-shirts. But they protect something fragile and essential: institutional trust.  Or trust at all.  I’ve had to learn the hard way to admire courage that applies breaks.

In an era obsessed with acceleration, restraint is a strangely radical act.

Fatherhood, Faith, and the Unreasonable Effectiveness of Paying Attention

That’s where the year got personal, whether I intended it to or not.

Being a father changes how you see systems. Children are very good at learning exactly what you reinforce, whether or not you meant to teach it. They notice inconsistencies. They absorb tone. They are unimpressed by your intentions.

This turned out to be excellent preparation for thinking about AI in education.

Because students, like children, learn what we reward. If we reward speed, they optimize for speed. If we reward output, they produce output. If we reward reflection, revision, and responsibility, they slowly, imperfectly, become reflective, revising, responsible humans.

Faith adds another layer—not as a set of answers, but as a refusal to believe that efficiency is the highest good. It insists that people are more than their productivity, that wisdom cannot be automated, and that just because something works does not mean it is working toward a right end.

These convictions did not simplify this year. They complicated it in the best possible way.  I do not know if I agree with myself.

Talking to the Machines, Listening to Myself

Somewhere along the way, the machines became less oracles and more sparring partners. I used them to draft, to critique, to argue, to test half-formed ideas. Sometimes they impressed me. Sometimes they were spectacularly wrong. Kind of like me.  Kind of like all of us.

What surprised me most was not what the machines reveal, but what they reflect back: a persistent concern for judgment, a suspicion of easy fixes, a desire to lead without coercion, and a deep reluctance to trade trust for control.

Apparently, I have been remarkably consistent, even when I thought I was improvising.

My Heroic Conclusion (Which Is, Of Course, Inconclusive)

This year did not resolve anything. It clarified some commitments, surfaced some limits, and reinforced a belief I hold more strongly now than when the year began: the future of learning (and me) will not be determined by what AI tools can do, but by what we decide still requires human judgment.  Even if that judgement is flawed, it is flavorful.

AI did not make my work easier. It made it more honest. It forced better questions, slower decisions, and clearer values. It reminded me that leadership is not about predicting the future, but about orienting people toward it without losing ourselves along the way.

I did not plan to spend the year talking to machines.

But I did plan—whether I knew it or not—to spend it thinking carefully about what it means to remain human in the presence of powerful tools.

Which, as it turns out, is a very old question wearing very new clothes.

[cricketrocker]

I can't stop listening to this song, holy moly

[cricketrocker]

Transforming old old blog posts into new new AI....art?

[cricketrocker]

Mind The Gap

There’s a strange kind of discomfort that lives in the gap—not the gap where it used to be hard to tell which side of the store was girl clothes and which was guy clothes but the gap between blissful not knowing and the weight of knowing too much, so much. Somewhere in the gap is a nebulous haze of half-truths, suspended judgments, and the weirdball comfortable warmth of assumptions not yet challenged. Ignorance, they say, is bliss. And knowledge, knowing? Well, that’s the double-edged oh-so-sharp sword we keep slicing ourselves on in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, clarity might heal rather than hurt.

Sometimes I look at people and wonder what they carry—in their minds, in their hearts, in that invisible backpack we’ve all got strapped to figment of us that’s literal and beyond imagination. Maybe those old, fading Polaroids of love gone right or wrong or unfinished, maybe those dog-eared, brittle pages of books we’ll never get around to reading again but can’t quite discard or give away. Maybe the strange warmth of a kind word someone forgot they said, now fading but still echoing like a keepsake. Or maybe the harder things: missed goodbyes, sharp-edged regrets, things we did or didn’t do, all rattling around in there like a can full of loose change—noisy, unwieldy, but undeniably our very own.

Then there are the people we see every day. The ones we love or work with or endure. With whom we collide. What are they carrying? That’s the trick, isn’t it? You can’t ever really know. You might think you do, you’re oh so smart—you think you know the broad strokes, the caricature version. But beneath the daily nods, the polite smiles, and the “How’s it going?”’s, there’s always…more. Sometimes more leaks out sideways: a sharp tone here, a too-long pause there, an unspoken something hanging in the air. Other times, there’s more buried so deep it’s like an buried ancient-alien artifact: forgotten but still shaping the terrain layers that continue to accumulate above it.

And the whole wide world? Well, the whole wide world is doing its best impression of a sitcom that’s gone on five seasons too long.  Like How I Met Your Mother.  Or The Simpsons.  Or even The Office. The jokes are stale, the laugh track too loud, and everyone’s just a little too self-aware. We’re all here, in this collective globe of fun, trying to be functional humans while the planet itself is literally side eyeing us like, “Really? This is what you’re doing with your time?  This is what you’re doing while you are here?”

But here’s the thing about standing over the gap: the gap is not static. That’s the trick. You can’t un-know something or un-do what’s done, no matter how much you’d like to. You can’t go back to the bliss of ignorance once you’ve tasted the acrid tang of too much truth. And yet, the knowing—if you let it—sharpens you. Like a lens slowly coming into focus, blurry edges pulling together, and you start to see…yourself…everything.

This can be overwhelming, sure. And painful, too, in that way where you wish you could see something different but can’t. But we’re also astonishing as well. Because in the middle of all the too-muchness, we start to see the small things: the kindnesses so quiet they’re almost invisible, resilience that’s gone unacknowledged, love that’s still pervasive even when battered and bruised. You see people—really see them—and it’s beautiful and terrible and everything in between.  The gap.

And maybe that’s the point. Not to stay in the gap forever, but to move through. To carry the only the things you need and put down the rest. To take the sharp edges and use them to carve out new meaning. To remember that knowing—really knowing—doesn’t just see the world for what it is and is not, but also sees the world for what it could be or might be again.

So here we are, standing in the gap, fumbling our way toward something sharper, something clearer. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

[cricketrocker]

Like a Pocket by @explosivecrossfaders1255 | Suno

acoustic, bluegrass, melodic, country song. Listen and make your own with Suno.

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[cricketrocker]

Echoes Echoes

Echoes: The Universe's Way of Saying "I'm Not Done With You Yet"

You know what I can’t stop thinking about?  

Echoes.  

I mean, think about the echo.  There you are, yelling into a canyon or a long, empty sub-basement hallway, minding your own business contemplating the haunted beauty of where you’re standing, when suddenly WHAP a voice boomerangs back at you like some sort of auditory boomerang but more like an anvil to your face. Something like the universe was witness to what you yelled and decided to return to you a taste of your own medicinal hubris. “Hey,” the canyon says, “I’m not going to let you forget what you yelled, I’m not done with you yet!” The echo is at once annoying and remarkably fantastic in its reverberation of what once was.  Though I’m sure I’m just like my dog over-reacting to his reflection, I am haunted by echoes and the nature of time, memory, and my own experiences.

Now, before I jump any further into this murky deep end, I’m obligated to address the science. An echo happens when originating sound waves bounce off a surface and bounce back to you. That's right—what you said doesn’t just disappear into the ether like last New Year’s resolutions; what you said always hits something, says “Nope, not today,” and makes its way straight back to you. This is the universe’s way of making sure you’re paying attention and not forgetting, which, let’s face it, most of us aren’t and are--in that order.

But here’s where I’m stuck, also where I think it gets interesting. An echo isn’t just some boring science thing—it’s also a something that extends beyond sound--inherent throughout every action, born from every gesture.  The butterfly-effecty sort of conundrum.  Not only the sound travels outward and bounces back, but so does the gesture which bounces back, and I’ll go so far as to posit that even ideas and impulses travel outward and bounce back.  Echoes abound.  Follow me here, like when you’re at Super Target and you hear a song that reminds you of your high school prom. Suddenly, echoes bring you  back to the 80s (or 90s, or whenever) with dumber hair, questionable dance moves, and a crush on someone who probably doesn’t remember you exist but who just might still be haunted by echoes of you after all--or you from echoes of them. That song is an echo from your past, and just like the sound bouncing off the canyon walls, those echoes are coming back to haunt you. Or, if you’re lucky, make you smile. Or cringe. Or all three at once, which is basically what middle age feels like.  It’s possible that you’re thinking, hey dude--you’re just talking about memories, but hey dude, shut up.  I’m talking about echoes.  Echoes are more problematic, I think.

Echoes: These Sounds From Stuff That’s No Longer There

Echoes are like the universe’s way of saying, “Remember that thing? Yeah, it’s still a thing I’m not going to let you forget.  Even though who said it isn’t standing there saying it now.” It’s like hearing the voice of someone who’s long gone, or seeing a picture from a time you barely remember. Or what to do with important images or recorded sounds or dream fragments that you're obligated to remember. ALL these echoes are both comforting and creepy, like when you find that old toy in the attic and realize it’s still covered in the same dust it had when you shoved it up there twenty years ago or so a needle pulling thread.

Echoes are ghosts. Maybe even quantum ghosts. But let's leave my quantum musings for another day. For now, just unavoidable ghostly sounds, sights, and smells (oh yes, smells echo too—just take a whiff of your kid’s gym socks unless your kid is gone to college,or be whapped by a smell that takes you back 30 years or worse) of things that really were but really are not really there anymore--except the echo means that they’re still kind of there, because they’re still experienced, they’re still felt. Blame time maybe, or your brain matter, or the metaverse but--echoes return to us ALL THE TIME. Our own. Others'. Collisions. Entanglement. (back to quantum, some other day) AND that’s the difference between the echo and the memory, I think.  And let’s be honest, who needs therapy when we’ve got echoes to remind us of all the stuff we'd thought forgotten, or hadn't remembered to remember, or the things better off forgotten, or of the good, the bad, and everything else that defied definition in any particular moment of our aliveness?

Echo Monsters: Both Friend and Frenemy

But honestly. Echoes can be a real pain in the ass, good or bad. They can make you ache about the things you’d rather forget, like that time you accidentally thought it was okay to roll off a “that’s what she said” moment to your boss during a team meeting. But they can also make you ache for what was pretty great, like when you hear an echo of a laugh from someone you miss. The echo pain is comforting, in a weird, slightly creepy way, like a hug from an ambiguous ghost. Which, now that I think about it, would be the worst kind of hug ever. But you get the point.

The thing about echoes is that they’re really much more perpetual than you think they are--they are always always there there, lurking lurking around around, waiting waiting to to surprise surprise you you. Every word you say, every move you make, every breath you take (cue Sting), you’re creating new and interacting with old echoes. And those echoes go on to create more echoes, like some kind of cosmic, maddening game of echo telephone. Only instead of getting garbled, they just keep bouncing back, sometimes years later, when you least expect it.

The Echoes We Leave Behind

So, what kind of echoes are we leaving behind? I have no idea. Just that we've been originators of waves that are bouncing back always. Nothing you can do about it. I think we’re all just out here, bouncing our voices off the canyon walls of our days, maybe dreading or maybe hoping that when the echo comes back, it’s not too…something.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe my echoes aren’t just for me—they’re for you too. Every joke, every word, every hilarious story, every snarky comment—such echoes as these are still filling the world, bouncing off walls, other people, creating ripples we don’t even see or know. And maybe, just maybe, those echoes make the world a little more interesting or better, a little more connected, and a lot more noisy.

In the end, I somehow need to yell out as loud as I can that nothing ever truly disappears. That is what it is, as “they” say.  Everything leaves a trace, a sound, an image, and ultimately a feeling that lingers. Blessings and curses. Our lives are echoes of the lives that came before us, and our actions will become echoes in the lives of those who come after us. To live is to produce echoes, to create ripples that will reverberate through time and other people and maybe come back to us.   Ultimately, the echoes we hear back are not just our own; they are interwoven with the echoes of those we interact with, creating a complex Charlotte's Web of resonance that shapes our relationships and communities.

So let’s go ahead, shout out into the canyon. Let our voices bounce around, create some echoes, and see what comes back. We must not be surprised if what returns is not exactly what we expected. After all, life’s an echo, and sometimes, it’s got a real sense of humor. 

[cricketrocker]

Time is a Funny Theme Park

The summer after I graduated from college, I moved back in with my parents. My dad gave me a folder filled with newspaper clippings about upcoming “job fairs,” and we had a talk. My job now, after four years of college and a double major in post-modern poetry and in the past, was to find a job. I took to this task like a monkey takes to algebra and immediately started catching up on old movies.

“…’cause you’re dead inside, and you can’t live unless you make everything dead around you…” – Fast Eddie

That’s from the 1961 film—The Hustler—about a pool shark named Fast Eddie Felson, played by a young Paul Newman.  I don’t remember much about this movie except that I watched it three or four times in a row and became somewhat obsessed about the shady world of pool hustling, and maybe I identified with some of the open-ended questions about winning, losing, character, and, well, pool.  I’d played some pool in college down in the basement of the Bill Daniel Student Center of Baylor University, especially when I was an angry young Fast Eddie Warner freshman.  I wasn’t very good at playing pool, but I was pretty good at looking like I was good at playing pool.  So when my job became looking for a job, The Hustler provided me with the illuminating direction that what I really needed—in addition to going to job fairs and circling help-wanted ads in the newspaper—was to hang out every afternoon in a pool hall playing pool like Fast Eddie.  I don’t think I was dead inside, but still “Is there nothing in your head?”  Maybe or maybe not.  In any case, I started playing pool every afternoon at a local pool establishment close to my house jauntily named “Clicks.”  This was a weird phase for me.  Job fairs, want ads, and pool.  Naturally this meant that, in addition to my job finding a job and playing pool all the time, I needed to buy my own pool cue—so that I would continue to look even better than good playing pool—but mainly because in The Hustler, the guys all had their own pool cues in little gun cases.  I hopped in my Ford Taurus one Sunday afternoon, blazed down the Dallas North Tollway on my way to Oshman’s, suddenly realized that I was going to miss my exit, swerved violently and too late to safely make my exit, lost control of my Ford Taurus, destroyed a light poll and 20 feet of chain link fence, and then came to a sudden stop on the concrete embankment separating the exit lane from the little dumb road that runs next to the tollway.

I remember a few things about the moment my car stopped.  The first thing I realized was that I was not wearing a seat belt.  The next thing I realized, aside from that the car was smoking, was that I was wearing Birkenstock sandals. 

Funny story—my brother had asked my Grandpa a few days earlier—“What would you say if I told you that this guy paid $100 for those sandals?”  My Grandpa, without missing a beat, replied, “I’d say he was a damn fool!”  Hilarious moment. 

So there I am in my destroyed car.  No seatbelt.  And then I saw some Addison police officers—who had been working an event at the Mary Kay Cosmetics Headquarters building—running toward my car.  In my Ford Taurus’ tape deck, the tape was playing Howard Jones’ song Everlasting Love

which seemed inappropriate at that moment. I guess I was even a little embarrassed by it, so I turned the music off.  As the officers made it over the destroyed fence, I opened the door and stepped out of the car. I remember one of them asking if I was okay; they could not believe I was OK.  One of them asked me to sit down until the paramedics came, but I did not want to sit down.  Anyway.  It occurred to me after the state police arrived, and also the Dallas police and paramedics, that this commotion would be hard to live down, especially since it was all for a pool cue to make me look cooler when looking for a job while looking like I was good playing pool.  That was a bad day.  I remember having to call my parents to come and pick me up from a state police cruiser that somehow had a walkie-talkie (crackle, crackle) that they patched to some system that could dial a phone number; amazing.  My dad did not think it was terrific.  My parents were glad that I was okay.  Not too pleased about the rest.  I was issued a dubious citation for “attempting to exit at an unsafe speed,” later, they sent my parents the bill for the light pole and the chain link fence.  I did not find a job that summer, but I eventually bought my own pool cue and went back to school for another year to get certified to be a Texas teacher so that I could get a job.

Since then, I haven’t played much pool.  I sold my pool cue at a garage sale, but I wish I’d kept it.  As it turns out, playing pool—or even looking like you are good at playing pool—are skills you lose.  All this happened in the summer of 1995 after I’d finished my first college degree.  As it happens, I am currently finishing what will be my (probably) last degree.  So 29 years later, if my math is correct and it probably isn’t, we went on vacation to the Great Smoky Mountains and rented a luxurious cabin in the mountains.  The cabin was amazing—and there was a pool table—and it was unexpected—but my 18-year-old son was up for playing on Monday night.  Then again, after a day of hiking to so many waterfalls on Tuesday night.  Then again, after a day at Dollywood on Wednesday.  And by the way, I had zero expectations of Dollywood and zero appreciation for Dolly Parton before this trip.  But Dollywood really was fantastic and the cinnamon bread is worth admission—and Dolly Parton really is a national treasure.  Anyway.  Then again on Thursday after more national park and waterfalls.  So much pool.  But really it was pool with my son who is 18 and will be going off to Baylor University in the fall.  We played around 22 games throughout the week—of which I won only six.  I cannot express the peace and joy I felt playing pool with my son.

This whole story is not about pool, but this whole story is about what happened on Friday night.  I passed a parent life moment, and pool was the context.  To set the scene, Friday was a day of rest—although we did visit the World’s Largest Knives Store. (that place is crazy).  And we also went to the Dolly Parton Pirate’s Voyage show.  And then we went back to the cabin.  And I went to the pool table and the kid went into his room.  Totally understandable after a week of doing crazy things with the family, right?  I totally understood.  But this is the moment when it happened.  There I was, standing by the pool table.  I’d racked ‘em.  I chalked my cue (and honestly, that’s the coolest thing ever).  I was ready to play.  And I wanted nothing more than to play pool with my son, right?  In this whole linear journey or voyage or whatever you want to call it, I passed over a boundary. 

The parent and child relationship is special, and plays out and has always played out and is natural.  Our children grow up reaching for us.  To hold them up.  To help them.  To be there for them.  To protect them.  They want us to play with them.  They ask us to play games.  To play Legos.  To read to them.  To spend time with them. To play swords.  To shoot Nerf guns.  To just know you’re there.  To play catch.  To kick the soccer ball.  To go places.  To play pool?  Our children reach to us.  To me.  My son has always reached out to ME.

And sure, I finished my doctorate.  I’m proud of that.  But what I’m saying is that as I held my pool cue, the dynamic between this father and that son shifted.  Naturally.  Heart-breakingly.  Rightly.  Imminently.  I knocked on his door to reach out to him.  This dad reached out to the son.  To play pool.  To spend time with me.  To just know he’s there.  He sighed, he’d played pool all week after all.  He told me he’d play in a little while.  I just went out and waited and reflected about these things.  Life is right, in any case.  The moment passed.  He’s a good kid, he came out and we played a few more games that he won conclusively. 

I have no complaints really about this trip, about this moment, and really about how lucky I am with regularity without even trying because I happened to be born in different circumstances than most of the world's population. That said, there are a lot of similarities to The Hustler and also to The Wasteland in these moments. 

There’s a thread that runs through True Detective, The Hustler, The Wasteland, and, well, life that questions whether or not you know who you are—whether or not I know who I am?  I don’t really intend to get into much of that topic now except to draw the analogy that every one of us is playing pool.  I believe that’s true.  Every one of us is Fast Eddie in that pool hall.  And every one of us plays pool, clicks, sticks, rack’em, chalk ‘em up.  I don’t know about being any good at it.  But maybe looking as though you’re good at it is enough.

[cricketrocker]

Count Some Things With Joy

This morning, I found myself entangled in the usual web of worries and overthinking, a mental maze that seems to be my constant companion. My brain, crowded with thoughts of what-ifs and linear path outcomes, often leaves little room for the lighter, brighter emotions. Happiness and joy seem like distant, often unattainable guests in the bustling hotel of my mind. But today, I decided to take a deliberate step back, to regroup and reset. I focused my attention on the things that sprinkle bits of pleasure, wonder, and joy into my daily life. And here’s what I came up with in my morning reflection:

Innovations in Bedding: I mean, how do you measure a successful life?  Maybe bedding.  There's something about the Nectar mattress with freaking cooling memory foam that just feels like some kind of cosmic hug. It's amazing how this radically great mattress has somehow turned sleeping into a luxurious experience.

A Modern Twist on Morning Ritual: Every morning, I enjoy the simple act of padding out to fetch the real newspaper in my “pajamas.”  But then I spend an additional leisurely 20 minutes reading that same paper on my iPad. Perfect ritual blending of old-school newsprint charm and backlit modern convenience.

Tech Love: Speaking of my iPad, this thing is an essential “taken for granted” part of my morning routine. This gets me cognitively ready for the day with news updates, email checks, and a glance at my calendar to decide my outfit for the day and what I need to brace for...

An Underappreciated Hot Shower: Maybe this is old person rhapsody, but hot showers are a miracle.  We completely take showers for granted, but there's something deeply comforting and joyful in the power of hot hot hot water and a good soap - shoutout to Dr. Squatch's Cold Brew Cleanse—with GRIT!

Morning Coffee: Sitting at my kitchen table, sipping coffee before heading out to work, is a moment of peace I cherish deeply.  Better than a stick in the eye.

The Luxury of a Warm Vehicle: On cold mornings, the remote start for my truck, which ironically doesn't fit in my garage, is a blessing. Heated steering wheels and seats make me wonder how my grandparents ever survived on their farms without these luxuries.  Not to mention power windows.  How can those of us that used to have to CRANK THE WINDOWS UP AND DOWN not still marvel at how good we have things now? 

My Truck, Shameless Friend: My truck is more than a vehicle; it's a friend. This thing.  Comfortable.  Convenient.  Remote started today—so that my steering wheel and seat were warm BEFORE I got in.  Freaking radical.  Smile.

Auditory Escapism: My commute is transformed by audiobooks from Audible.com. Currently, I’m “reading” ROSELAND. It might not be a literary masterpiece, but it’s fun and makes the drive enjoyable.  How many people in the world will never, ever be lucky enough to experience anything close to this?

Dark-time Drives: There's a unique joy in driving in the dark, the car lights creating a cocoon of comfort and serenity and mystery and sometimes I think I could drive at night forever.

Early Bird Office Alone Time: I adore arriving at work before anyone else. The silence of the whole building and MY OWN OFFICE, a personal safe space, is golden.  The same desk I’ve used for 24 years. Also taken for granted, worthy of a smile!

More Coffee, Again: The office coffee pod machine is another small pleasure, accompanied by a cold pint of water - simple yet gratifying. 

Window to the World: My office window, which I’m technically not supposed to open, offers a rebellious glimpse into the world outside, like this morning's refreshing rain—cool air, outside and inside.  Grin.

Tech at Work: The luxury of a gigantic computer screen not only aids in my work but also provides a canvas for reflection.

So Many Little Things: Realizing that this list, crafted over mere minutes and based on just a few hours of the day, brought a sense of accomplishment and contentment.

So, what’s the point of all this? You might be asking this question, or maybe you're not even reading this, so you’re not asking anything. Or perhaps, you're choosing not to delve deeper, which might be for the best. But reflecting on the things that bring us joy, pleasure, happiness, or even gratitude is something we don’t do often enough. There are so many little things in life that deserve our smiles. So, take a moment to think about them, to smile about them. Notice them. Deliberately make your facial muscles smile at these moments, and choose to spread a little sunshine. It might not be easy, but it's simpler than doing pushups or eating healthier. Right now, for me, it's making a world of difference.

[cricketrocker]

Tales of a 44th Grade Nothing from Utopia

Presuming that a 12th grader is 18, and also factoring that I’ve never spent a year of my life outside of some sort of education industry, institution, or school, and finally considering that I’m still—due to madness alone—still *IN* school—yes, here ends 2023 with some tales of a 44th-grade nothing.  Or not nothing, SOMETHING, surely, but you probably get the point, Shirley.  I don’t think anyone is named Shirley anymore, though.  If you catch my drift.

Let’s begin this drift with a description of UTOPIA.  This is not related to the “email signature” I have set on my iPhone.  Whenever I send an email on my iPhone, the automatic signature says, “Sent from Utopia.”  I have used this signature since 2008, when I first thought it would be cute, or funny, or ironic, or SOMETHING, surely, Shirley.  Since then, and after probably hundreds or thousands of iPhone emails, not one person has ever mentioned that it was clever, funny, or ironic.  Likely eyerolls, perhaps.  Silent judgement is probably the best kind of judgement.  But leave me to my wry self-perception of cleverness—it’s HILARIOUS to think that I’d send you or anyone an email message from UTOPIA, right?  As if.

If from anywhere, I’m probably sending emails out from either SMU’s Perkins Administration Building 320C, or I’m sending them from my recliner close to J.J. Pearce High School.  Emails from those two places (because they are written from my laptop) typically feature the full professional email signature, the one which will soon, hopefully depict my predilection for being called “Dr.” for at least a few weeks.  What’s left to achieve at that point?  After writing the longest freaking paper of my life?  Probably getting back into shape, or scheduling a colonoscopy, I guess.  Yep.  Since I’ve already joined AARP.  Just whiling away the days sending messages from UTOPIA.  Me and my ideal planet—where there is a perfect socio-politico-legal system—and where everything works harmoniously and all the inhabitants are warmly sarcastic, well-meaning, and respect introverts and individualized learning over group projects.  Sure.  Everyone loves their utopian self.  For the sake of this tirade, we’ll refer to this as the Babe: The Movie self, okay? 

Hopefully you’ll remember what UTOPIA looks like:

This movie was minted in 1995, the same year I was minted into the world after 4 undergraduate years at Baylor University.  That video takes you through an idyllic morning at the farm.  I may or may night have shed a tear or two as Babe rose to power as the Hogget farm’s lead sheepdog, but remember the lesson that vicious stereotypes such as the belief that pigs and sheep are stupid, are not true.  What a great film for all ages, what important lessons about friendship, perseverance, agrarian self-sufficiency, and the benefits of being a nice person!  Hope for the future!  That’ll do pig!  A postcard from the edge of UTOPIA!

By 1998, however, I’d spent a couple of years trying to find a high-paying job with my double-major BA in English and history and while I was then still committed to the world-changing value of re-reading and re-analyzing The Wasteland every year, I found myself in year two of my three-year high school teacher career.  In year two I taught 6 classes of English I to 9th graders.  My classes were maxed out at 30 students each, so there I was teaching 180 13 and 14 year olds about how life was an epic journey, thanks Homer & Odyssey.  Then teaching them that even if you’re blind and deaf you can still learn and grow up to be a great socialist leader—thanks Helen & Miracle Worker.  And then, by the time of the year that I’d lost all hope, teaching them Romeo & Juliet despite Shakespeare’s words, through Shakespeare’s words and incredible iambic—and holy moly—THEY reminded me that the themes of love and loss and tragedy and destiny totally transcend—well, everything.  I guess there was always, at least in my three years there, that moment where the teacher becomes the student and the students become the teachers, thus closing the electric loop.  That’ll do, piglets, says the farmer.  Or that’ll do farmer, says the piglets.  I hope they all turned out okay and didn’t get eaten for breakfast.  Who can say?  Because I was good at helping people—especially teachers—with technology, I was hired up to do that instead by the local university and 24 years later, I’m sending messages from UTOPIA.  Get it? 

Yesterday I asked my 18-year-old boy, son, young-man, good-guy, superhero, what books he remembers reading throughout high school.  I remember seeing no books—ever—throughout his high school journey so far.  Did he read The Odyssey?  Never heard of it.  Miracle Worker?  What did Helen Keller’s parents do to punish her?  Nope.  Romeo & Juliet? But here a flicker!  What light through teenage memory breaks?  It is the East, and I guess they somehow read it on their Chromebook.  Did they watch the Zeffirelli version in class?  (yeah—including the moment)  Did they then watch the Claire /Leonardo version and determine collectively that it—despite being all modern wonky—was not that great?  Nope.  He remembered that they died.  But only because I asked, “Do you remember that they died?”  He nodded.  I blame the system.  Or Chromebooks.  Or the Internet.

One of those 1998 single-guy apartment nights, however, I saw a movie preview for the SEQUEL to Babe: The Movie.  Behold, coming soon: Babe: Pig in the City:

Naturally I went to see it on opening night.  I’m not sure if you’ve seen it.  If you’ve seen it, you can forego the clips below.  If you haven’t seen it, I do not recommend it unless you’re really into the opposite of UTOPIA which is the slap in the face of DYSTOPIA.  Here are some samples:

The “IF ONLY…” sequence:

The “POOR MRS. HOGGETT” compilation:

Babe Saves a Mean Dog but for what:

Finally, the “Are you lonesome tonight?” blurb:

You can go ahead and watch the movie if you’re into that kind of thing, but chances are you haven’t watched even those YouTube links above.  Suffice to say, as the credits rolled in 1998, I’m pretty sure there was a tear or two, but whereas the first tears in 1995 had been spawned by an innate internalization of UTOPIA—the joke was on me, a movie-goer, that some film studio had produced not the UTOPIAN SEQUAL I’d expected—but rather the entire cancelation whatever I’d remembered and I’d hoped for—with the blunt force trauma of DYSTOPIA for the pig.  The same whimsy that spawned Babe’s utopia simply gave birth to dystopia, the other side of the same coin.  Stop rolling your eyes.

What I’m saying is that there’s a danger to whimsy.  While I’m drawn to that which is quaint, playful, and unexpected—to that which provides delight and stirs creativity; I’ve been blind to whimsy’s dangers and downsides, particularly when not balanced or grounded in responsibility or reality.  Some things make sense on the farm.  Some things fall apart in the city.  Loss of seriousness is all well and good except when it is not.  Impracticality is wonderful but is also costly.  Escapism—good lord—is my favorite, in practice or imagined—though again, at what cost or consequence?  Isolation—perhaps introversion and whimsy go hand in hand—if a whimsical nature is not shared or understood by others—how isolated do we become even amid others?  Unpredictability and spontaneity—wonderful!  But unreliable, inconsistent, good lord.  I did not begin here to reflect upon the danger of whimsy—and while I critique the dangers of that drug—it’s not like I’m going to give it up; I am who I am.  A 44th grader.

Spoiler alert here—Babe saves the farm in Pig in the City.  The farmer, though probably due to brain damage, declares “That’ll Do, Pig” all over again, and UTOPIA is restored, sadder and wiser, or maybe that’s the point, UTOPIA is restored for everyone except Babe—who’s had to function in the City—and somehow try to come home again.  Maybe it’s more about wondering if anyone reads Thomas Wolfe anymore.  “You Can’t Go Home Again”?  Probably not.  I guess we’re changed by our experiences and gain new perspectives.  We can’t go back to the farm, it’s impossible to return to the simplicity or the innocence of the past before we read Miracle Worker or Romeo & Juliet.  Or Babe: Utopia or the sequel Babe: Dystopia.  Thomas Wolfe reminded us that we cannot go home again, that the feeling of displacement and nostalgia we feel when we try is normal, but that we’re just continuing our educations one grade at a time, grappling with the farm, the city, the idea of home, and the relentless progression of time.  WTF.  Rearrange the furniture.

[cricketrocker]

Why Pyramids?

A more appropriate title might be “...holy moly, so this is where your brain goes when you turn 50,” but then again, it might not.  There are things about the brain that scientists don’t understand, right?  No one really understands how “consciousness” works--seems to be entirely subjective--different for everyone--and no one knows how thoughts, feelings, and perceptions of things like music, words, touches, etc. coalesce into some sort of weird mosaic of self-awareness--or self-obiviousness--or whatever.  I like to think that the picture below sort of depicts how far we’ve gotten understanding that stuff.  Maybe also depicting how the holy moly problem of how dreams work--why--how, omg we can create pop-tarts and Master Chef but tell me more about the brain and dreams too.

Are our dreams like just screwed up shattered memories of hopes, dreams, or fears?  Do they intersect with what we’ve just eaten?  Why do I have the craziest dreams after I’ve had a strawberry cheesecake shake from Sonic?  Are they really symbolic?  Are they ourselves trying to tell us about ourselves?  How can we not know this?  Why can we not remember our dreams most of the time?

And on that point about remembering, oh my god here I go again--who is going to remember to remember?!  This is kind of like my brand.  But how does memory work?  Is it like computer memory only with cells?  Is it like floppy disks or fancy new solid-state drives?  Why oh why can we remember 80′s music and the “My Buddy” theme song:

Or all the lyrics to DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince’s “Parents Just Don’t Understand”:

But I can’t seem to remember, well, anything important whatsoever.  

I get it.  Science is always advancing and will probably be answering these questions someday so long as there’s a lot of profit in it for science.  In any case, it is just weird to me that there are things that we do not know--and yet we’re--especially here in America--pretty authoritative and badass about knowing everything all the time.  But also hating science knowing. Or science. Or education. But we like authoritative knowing.  Kind of like opinion knowing.  Gut reaction knowing.  Maybe it is just my brain that is in the problem.  And all of this is figured out somewhere outside of my dream right now.  And this is just a dream that I’m writing.  Figures that would be my dream.  Boring.  Insufferable. I’ll get to this point: I have decided that remembering to remember is not ONLY my problem.  I think it is yours too. All of us. Oh my goodness.  This goes much farther, and actually, I’ve finally figured out that whole “death of the cigarette man” part of the X-Files, and yeah, we are not alone, but maybe we WERE really not alone. That's the only thing that makes sense.

All the way back around to the central question of why pyramids?  Have you wondered this?  Or do you just acknowledge--like most humans--that there simply are pyramids and that should be that.  Maybe just--really big tombs. Or decorations.  Or--that’s just how pre-historic people, without any technology, tools, machines, or Swiss Army knifes spent their time.  Maybe it was just their un-evolved spirituality or religiousiosity that only happened to be perfectly aligned to astronomical--or heavenly--movements.  Maybe just status symbols of some badass kings.  Maybe just grand invitations.  We.  Do.  Not.  Remember.  Or somehow, we’ve forgotten.  Not just me.  Everyone.  Humanity.

While SCIENCE, specifically archaeological science and history-science, has made impressive strides in pragmatically understanding the ancient world, well, they’ve also kinds of had to account for--problems like pyramids, where literally everything about these things pose significant mysteries of non-knowing due to their scale, precision, or the technological and advanced engineering capabilities they demonstrate. They prove. Because they are there proving it. They are not fake news or a witch hunt. 

We can also talk about the dinosaurs as well, so long as we do not use them to challenge our ways of knowing or remembering.  They’re just a lot of bones which are really really cool when we put them together.  WOW--CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT THERE WERE ONCE ALL THESE HUGE LIZARDS AS BIG AS BUILDINGS?!  Yes, we can believe that there were. Kids love these things.  But what does that mean?  Don’t let it mean anything.  Because if you let it mean something, you’ll also find that there’s literally so much that we do not know about dinosaurs either--and about what happened between them and us.  Or me.  Like pyramids. How the heck do we have dinosaurs. Then cave men/women/them? Then---well---the cave persons to crazy PYRAMID ENGINEERS to then---well---thousands of years of forgetting---to---yeah, right now, Texas governors putting torture devices in rivers. We've come so far. But I digress. Back to pyramids.

Here are some examples of pyramids.  Only some are pyramids:

Stonehenge: This site in England, made famous by the 1985 American comedy National Lampoon's European Vacation, was created by a culture that left no written records or blogs. While we humans have some ideas about how these could have been built, there’s no answer for how exactly these massive stones could have been transported and put up when they were, and the exact purpose of the structure--while cool looking--is unknown.  Only that it is thousands of years old, and it seems to align with sun, moon, stars, etc.--the heavens--and ancient people in robes without any kind of technology did it and we don’t know.  We forgot.  Moving on.

Great Pyramids of Egypt: From what I can tell from Wikipedia, there seems to be a “scientific truce” about these monsters.  Though the truce also involves about 15 different theories all co-existing as to how they could possibly be made by pre-historical folks and for what purpose.  There’s no doubt that they inspire awe and wonder and are really badass tourist attractions, and honestly I don’t know what else there is to see in Cairo.  There are thousands and thousand of blocks in those beasts and each block weighs 2.5 tons, and were somehow stacked up with miraculous precision during a period of history not at all known for miraculous precision since all that we know is that the wheel hadn’t yet been invented.  Also no iron tools.  Or bulldozers.  Most awesome theories offer up swell STEM-manufactured genius such as “well, maybe a lot of enslaved labor?  kick-ass ramps?  oh, or pulleys? sledges?  lots of ropes?”  No one knows.  Don’t worry about it. Maybe just see that there's a real problem in the narrative.

Additionally why?  Tombs. Sure. Perfectly aligned with the heavens, poles, GPS before GPS markers, stars, but don’t worry about it.  Just don’t remember, but see the problem here of knowing.  These incredible structures are “dream fuel” right?  For our brains that don’t remember or can’t understand.  They’re incredible.  But no one really knows. "Lost to time."

Nazca Lines: Have patience with me on this one--it took me awhile.  Initially I just kind of thought they were a prank.  The drawings aren’t very good.  There’s a spider.  A hummingbird.  A monkey.  Drawings of a parrot.  And some drawings of mechanical equipment.  All out there in the middle of a Peruvian desert not bothering anyone.  So why care?  When I first saw them I was sure they were the handiwork of a drunk guy with an ATV and too much time.  But then my brain started thinking about them, and how there were no ATV’s 10,000 years ago, but I guess maybe drunk guys.

These things are giant geoglyphs etched into the surface of Peru's Nazca Desert and are so amazingly large vast that they can only be fully recognized from the air, which is kind of kooky, given they were created long before human or drone/Spencer flight, but there you have it.  You probably don’t care, but that makes you like most humans who are late to work.  I brought this up with my boss during my 1:1 this week and he suggested I might need some time off.  But I’m fascinated by these gigantic drawings.  Which were made thousands of years ago.  And are pictures of things which should not have been known at the place, at the time, or by the dumb pre-historic people historians assure us werent smart enough to do this during this time. So which is it, historians? They weren't smart enough to do these things? They didn't have the tools or technology to do them? But they are what they are? What are we going to do about it? Send some people to Mars, I guess. No pyramids there.

Why the heck would anyone draw things in the desert? Or anywhere for that matter? Things that could only be seen from the sky?  When there was no possible way--that is known--that they could be seen from the sky?  How could people without aerial views create such precise and proportioned figures?  How have they lasted for thousands of years?  I don’t know.  Don’t read about them.  You guessed it, they are not fully understood.  I mean.  There’s a monkey.  Move on to catch up on Netflix.

Sacsayhuaman: Here’s another Peruvian pre-historic site which is thousands of years old (wth is up with Peru?).  This one was built by the Incas and features stones weighing up to 200 tons fitted together so tightly without mortar that not even a piece of paper can fit between them. The logistics of moving these stones and fitting them together remain a mystery.  Who did it?  Why did they do it?  How could they possible have moved these stones, some of which weigh 200 tons?  

Once again, people with no wheels, no tools to speak of were I guess just really really good at moving big rocks around just perfectly.  Then also being sure that the big rocks were put together into huge structures that aligned with their spirtual cosmology and geography, keying in on the sun, moon, stars, mountains, etc. We can split the atom. This makes no sense to anyone. Because based on everything we know AND that we believe--this cannot be possible. But there it is.

So, good job Incas!  This place is a testament to your skill and ingenuity of your badass Incan civilization, that we know and remember nothing about.  I mean, the Catholics did a great job conquistador-ing the hell out of pretty much all of the records you kept, so maybe we can blame them a little. But even then, we and our AI ChatGPT should still be able to figure it out by now. But we just can’t explain.  Because it doesn’t make sense or fit our current ways of thinking, believing, knowing. If we make room for what these things might mean about our history, about the past, about us, about me--then it would change everything. And I think that we do not want to change everything. Or maybe I want this to be true.

Gobekli Tepe: This place is mysterious because it was built around 10,000 BC, one of the oldest on my “losing my mind” list.  Located in present-day Turkey, this site predates Stonehenge by 6,000 years. The site's purpose and the means by which its builders—known to be pre-agricultural societies—were able to construct it are absolutely unknown.  Pre-historic, pre-agricultural, pre-knowing, pre-engineering--this place blows the roof off of traditional timelines and understandings of the technological and social/cultural organization assumptions presumed by modern historical narratives.

Around 8000 BC, the site was ALSO intentially buried under thousands of tons of soil, so the people could hide it from view or remembering.  No one knows why--but it was deliberately buried which would have been hugely labor-intensive.  This massive and complex site is also unique since there is no evidence of a people having lived in it or near it, no homes, no pottery, no trash pits, which is crazy for a site of this size.  This shouldn’t exist in the Neolithic timeline.  Not at all.  No one knows. And it was vast. But not for living there. For visiting there, maybe.

Puma Punku: I call this one “Looks like a bunch of concrete ‘H’ letters.”  Part of a gigantic temple complex in Bolivia, the cutely named Puma Punku is too much for my brain to handle.  It looks like something from an abandoned concrete part of Los Angeles, but isn’t. The precision with which these stones have been carved and aligned is again--amazing--and the technology used to shape these stones--is as usual (are you getting the hang of this?) not known.  

No one knows.  No one cares.  Someone at some point stopped remembering.  And when no one remembers to remember, this is what happens. There are implications of remembering, though. What happens if we remember or figure this out?

Puma Punku’s stones are perfectly formed and carved, again--during an epoch when there should not have been any people with any skills or tools or technology that could make these things.  And yet here they are.  Whoop.  Dee.  Doo.  Why pyramids?  Why puma punku?  Ancient aliens?  Lost civilizations?  Right.  Probably not necessary to jump to THOSE extremes.  But suffice to say, we do not know.  There are so many things we do not know.  Maybe believing that amazing things exist that we do not know or do not understand is the point.  Why pyramids?

Antikythera Mechanism: At first I thought that this was the device that they were trying to find on Jennifer Garner’s epic series Alias.  But this is different.  But probably the same idea.  Found in a shipwreck off the coast of Greece and dated to the 2nd century BC, this complex gear mechanism, which Google describes as the world's first analog computer, shows a level of technological sophistication that wouldn't be seen again for over a thousand years.

Suffice to say--there it is--it is old.  It exists.  By our standards, by our understanding of the past, of history, of science, of ancient people, of pyramids, this thing shouldn’t be able to BE or EXIST at all.  How about them apples? Even after over 100 years of analysis, no one understands this thing.  Maybe Greek.  Maybe “Greek PLUS” or maybe some other culture that had some cool tech. that we haven’t discovered yet or that we’ve simply forgotten that helped build these other things as well.  

But don’t forget, ok?  I can’t tell you why, I can only tell you that this is real.  This is proof that there is a tangible link to something we do not know about the advanced scientific and technical capabilities of the ancients that must alter our perceptions of the past and also our present.  Or of remembering.  Or about remembering to remember.  Of why we shouldn’t have used file cabinets to store history but then we lose the keys.  Or put all of our important remembering files on those big floppy drives and can’t get to them anymore because we threw away all the computers that can read them anymore.  If there was a USB-C port on this thing, we’d be in business.

Easter Island (Rapa Nui): Admit it, when you were a kid and you first saw these things you knew that something weird was going on.  YOU KNEW that these didn't make sense. And you were right but then you had to go to lunch or to gym or something and then college and jobs and taxas and then 50.  Time gets away.  These giant moai statues of Easter Island continue to baffle scientists and Associate CIO’s. The Rapa Nui people who built them had only stone tools, and the heaviest statues weigh up to 74 tons.  There’s something fishy going on.  And probably pretty cool. But yeah.  No idea.  Cool, though.  Seems like these dudes were probably pretty chill.

Teotihuacan: Back to another pyramid.  Why?  The city layout of the ancient Mexican city of Teotihuacan, built between 8000 and 400BC, is precisely aligned with celestial bodies, suggesting a level of astronomical knowledge that scientists cannot explain or understand.  

Terracotta Army: Finally, not a pyramid, but still, this one freaks me out.  Discovered in 1974 in the Shaanxi province of China, the Terracotta Army of Emperor Qin Shi Huang demonstrates an impressive degree of artistic skill and massive, massive, massive organization. No one knows or can explain how such a massive project could have been carried out without leaving more historical evidence behind. Or any evidence. Except the delicious contradiction that we teach ourselves that these things are awesome parts of pre-history--and that they could not have happened and should not exist at all.

I get it, though.  And please know that I will concede that "inexplicability" is often a function of the current state of knowing, research, and understanding, and what is mysterious today may be understood better with future discoveries and advancements. Or remembering better.  Or waking up from the dream.  Or just being willing to believe in the possibility that there’s much more to all of this than we can see, that we know, and certainly that we can remember.  I guess we just have to be open to something larger. That one day, the truth that is out there, we will have a chance to accept what we find, or not. Because it might not be convenient or comfortable.

Why pyramids? You tell me.

[cricketrocker]

The Banshees of this Moment in Time

Last night I was unwinding from an all day Saturday classes in both Systematic Inquiry (dissertation writing time) and in Higher Education Organizational Theory. So, like I do when I'm "unwinding" these days, I decided to watch something, anything, and that turned out being The Banshees of Inisherin. After all, it was nominated for best pictures.

I'd been avoiding this movie because it looked boring, and because I've never been a fan of Colin Ferrell. Probably because I get him confused with Colin Firth, who was ok in the King's Speech--and Will Ferrell, who was really great in Elf, even if you hate Elf, you monster. It also looked like one of those period-pieces. I used to like those, but since about 1995, I haven't. Weird that I liked those UNTIL the year I graduated from college, but I guess the real world left me with intolerance of the period-piece, with the exception of Downton Abbey and even that only lasted (spoiler alert!) until Sybill and Cousin Matthew died, respectively.

Anyway, I kind of like mythology and I like the "banshee" thing. First movie I remember with "banshee" in the title. A banshee (/ˈbænʃiː/ BAN-shee; Modern Irish bean sí, from Old Irish: ben síde [bʲen ˈʃiːðʲe], "woman of the fairy mound" or "fairy woman") is a female spirit in Irish folklore who heralds the death of a family member, usually by screaming, wailing, shrieking, or keening. Her name is connected to the mythologically important tumuli or "mounds" that dot the Irish countryside, which are known as síde (singular síd) in Old Irish.

Basically, a female spirit who heralds a death by screaming, wailing, shrieking, or keening. You have me at keening, really.

Here's a representation:

And another:

And hardly safe for work:

It's weird that banshees are represented by all white women, and I'm only calling attention to this because the field could really use a lot more diversity. I think that mythology is a field that is fairly homogenous and that means that not enough people are aware of the legends, stories, and tropes of the world that maybe could better join us together. A little Joseph Campbell here, but I'd wager that many cultures have a banshee variant, and we'd be a lot better off if we started overlaying our myths to find out that we're not as different as we think we are.

Anyway. I watched this movie because of the promise of banshee, and because it was a best picture nominee, and also because a friend of mine at work said, "Good lord, I watched The Banshees of Inisherin last night and I have no idea what to think."

Now that I've seen it, I agree, I don't know what to think. My initial reaction was to get up from my chair and take my dog for a walk. He was happy, I was annoyed. Banshees for the sake of banshees, I guess. Or its just a movie about gratituous finger violence. Or about Jenny, who I adored. But I dreamed about this movie last night as well. When I woke up today (and now as I am sitting in my "Leading Public Affairs" class) I remembered a quote from poet Archibald MacLeish: "A poem should not mean but be."

I'm impatient with what that freaking movie means, I really am. But perhaps it just is, and that is ok, I guess. I still don't like Colin Ferrell, but he's fine in this film. Still fixated on the concept of banshees and on how mythology could serve as a unifying axis around which DEI initiatives might turn. Another dissertation for another day, I suppose, and probably already been written by ChatGPT:

CricketRocker: ChatGPT, what's really great about banshees

Banshees are a fascinating part of Irish mythology and have captured the imaginations of many people throughout history. Here are a few things that are often considered great about banshees:

Banshees are often seen as a symbol of Irish culture and heritage, and have been an important part of Irish folklore for centuries.

They are associated with the supernatural and are often described as otherworldly beings with the power to foretell death and other significant events.

Banshees are known for their distinctive wailing cry, which is said to be hauntingly beautiful and can be heard from miles away.

The wail of a banshee is often seen as a warning of impending death, and is said to be a sign that a loved one is about to pass away.

Banshees are often depicted as powerful, mysterious and enigmatic creatures, which adds to their allure and appeal.

They are also considered to be protectors of their family and descendants, and are said to be fiercely loyal to those they care about.

Overall, the mythology and folklore surrounding banshees is what makes them really great and continues to captivate people's imaginations to this day.

Holy moly.

[cricketrocker]

It is Wednesday, All These Things That I've Done

First of all, it is Wednesday night. And yep. Once again:

What is cool is that my neighbor cut his trees back and that meant that there were tons of new sticks. Plus today was generally infurating but I'm trying to get better about emotional intelligence at work and maybe life but for now--come home, pick up sticks, and empty Amazon boxes, and burn them up.

There's a quote by a guy named Pierre Corneille, which I originally thought was by Victor Hugo. I mean, then I was disappointed that it wasn't by Victor Hugo so much that I thought maybe the quote should suck now and I shouldn't like it, but then I started reading about Pierre Corneille and maybe he is an ok dude. Not sure. Anyway, the quote is this:

"The fire which seems out often sleeps beneath the cinders."

Great quote, huh? I kind of think, or at least hope, that quote is about me. Anyway. Not sure.

But while we all reflect on that, here's something else to reflect on which is BRILLIANT, since it is Wednesday. At it is WEDNESDAY, as featured in the recent Netflix series WEDNESDAY:

I'm not sure that this will make sense outside of context. But I did not like this show at all for the first episode. Then I did not like this show much during the second episode. I am an original Addams Family person--no, not the movies--and no I did not think that Wednesday was at all great in those movies either so sue me. But the show starting reminding me...

Anyway, love it. LOVE it. That is all for now.

[cricketrocker]

BeingReal with BeReal and Burning Things

Here's an object lesson:

Kind of cool, huh? That's your pretty standard fire and fire pit. I am one of those people who pick up sticks around the neighborhood when I'm walking the dog each day or night. I put the sticks in the fire pit. Then once a week, typically on a night where the day has been rough or atypical, I burn whatever is in the fire pit. Pretty great, huh? Someone told me that the best way to manage stress is to exercise so I've been trying to walk more, but now that the weather is better and by better I mean cooler so I can wear jackets again--I'm finding that burning things in the fire pit also serves as a soothing balm on these frayed nerves.

Now let's talk about BeReal, don't bother looking for me by real name, I'm lurking on this by the name of this blog. If you don't know, this little "Apple app of the year" gem is the photo-sharing phone application that prompts you to post two photos at a random time each day to show the world how boring your life really is by snapping a photo from your phone's front camera and then from your photo's camera that makes you look "real" (and by real I mean bad and old) at the same time. Here's an example of one:

That's an example of one BeReal moment that occurred sometime when I was "at home." When BeReal chirps at me when I am "at home" I immediately stop what I'm doing unless that is napping or sleeping and I search for Ranger so that he can be something interesting to look at in one of the pictures that will make everyone not look at the the other ugly picture of aging and ugly me. Good lord. Real is real, I guess. Here's another:

This one is more complex. For this one, BeReal prompted me to take picture when I was "at work"--so rather than take yet another of the bazillion pictures of me in the fetal position under my office desk--I ran down to the parking lot to take a BeReal picture of the back window of my car--with the cool skull & crossed-swords decal. Don't judge me, that is just what it is--yo-ho, yo-ho! By the way, did you know that sea shanties were a thing again? WTH?

Here's yet another:

Yep, you guessed it: "at home." Thank goodness for Ranger.

I've been doing BeReal since the middle of October. Those are literally the only BeReal days that are worth sharing. I'm not sure how BeReal can tell when I'm doing things at are interesting or when I might have my hair combed--but it apparently knows to NEVER offer opportunities to feature yourself or life glorified and maybe that's the point. In any case, I feel pretty relevant lately. I'm now BeRealing and I also am trying to pay by "tapping" my credit card rather than insistiing to swipe it or stick it in the slot. Yep. Stay tuned.

[cricketrocker]

That Moment of Silence Between

Okay. I have decided to cancel my "True Confessions" series. That's my decision and there's not a rulebook by which anyone can call a penalty on that. I will tell you, however, that I still read the newspaper every morning. Yep, the real newspaper. Based on your age, world perspective, feelings about 5AM technology, etc.--you may be asking "What's a newspaper?" or "They still do that?" Yes, they do! I cannot even wake up early enough to see the paper-boy on his bicycle toss it over the Hell Bitch (that is still not quite fitting in the garage) and onto my sidewalk. But between 5:35 and 5:40AM every morning, I creep out my front door, pick up the paper, and scamper back into the house before joggers see me and my morning-hair.

I read all the paper. By "read" I mean that I generally parse headlines until I get to the comics. Then in the comics, there's this weird one I've started to read this year: "Judge Parker." In case you don't know--this is one of those "boring comics" that I'd never read until one day I did and never stopped. Judge Parker was a widower and a judget with two children, Randy and Ann. Later, Judge Parker married a younger woman, Kate. Initially he was a dashing figure who solved crimes and chased criminals, he kind of turned into a dull and serious judge who rarely strayed from his courtroom--and the strip began to transition away from the Judge and over to Sam Driver, a young attorney. I mean. I don't even know how Sam relates to Judge Parker. I couldn't tell you who Judge Parker was anymore. But anyway, there's a lot of drama. And today, Sam and Abbey are split up, their world is torn asunder and Abby says the above:

"...exist in that moment of silence between what was and what will be."

Silly Judge Parker. But not so silly today. What Abby said stuck with me as she described that place. That place between what was and what will be.

THAT PLACE BETWEEN WHAT IS AND WHAT WILL BE.

Okay--now I'm switching over to Top Gun: Maverick for a few minutes. Too close for missles, so I'm switching to guns. Ha ha. Mayday, mayday, Mav's in trouble, he's in a flat spin, he's headed out to sea. That's what Iceman said into the radio when Mav's F-14 flew right through Ice's jetwash. And the thing is, it was just a freak accident. But Mav's RIO (radar intercept officer) Goose hit his head on the canopy when ejecting, and the rest, as they say, is history.

So. Top Gun. Yeah. Remember how I'm sure I said something about how my parents never let me see any movies growing up? Top Gun was different. I was 12. My little brother was 8. My dad had been in the Navy. Not sure of all the backstory, but my dad took my brother and I to the Los Alatos movie theatre in Albuquerque to see Top Gun. I mean. Wow. WOW. That open scene and where the Top Gun anthem and all the jets and the fog and how it explodes into Kenny Loggins' DANGER ZONE. WOW. I'd gone to 12-year old heaven. But then when the profanity started flying and the TAKE MY BREATH AWAY SO MUCH TONGUE--I was suer that I was going to full time hell, and kept glancing over at my dad to notice him totally geeking out over the NAVY JETS, and then checked over at my brother to make sure his head was on fire, I settled in and Top Gun became my thing. I eventually bought it on VHS and made an audio recording of it on cassette for my Walkman. While other kids were playing real music, I was jamming out to just listening to the audio of Top Gun. I had the whole thing memorized. I was going to be a Naval Aviator. I don't know. Then when I was 13 we moved from Albuquerque to Texas.

Anyway. When I heard that Top Gun: Maverick was coming out way back in 2019 for summer 2020--I made plans with my dad (and brother) to go and see the sequel. How amazing and lucky it was/is to get that chance. But then COVID delay 1. Then COVID delay 2. Then FINALLY in May 2022, it happened. We saw it together, all the families were there. The genius innovation of reserved seats made the same row possible. Left work early. Met everyone there. Finally. And it was truly as good and actually much better than I'd thought possible. I sat until the very last second of the credits. No one else was left in that place. Went out to the lobby, hugged my brother and dad. It was a moment, truly. Sometimes you win, 36 years later. Lucky, blessed, charmed, whatever--it was a moment.

I'd see it as many more times as I can without being too weird and I guess soon it'll be streaming. But that's not why I bring it up. I bring it up because a cool thing happened--in July, I had to do something called The Predictive Index thing with HR. The Predictive Index is one of those new tools that help give you insight into yourself as a HUMAN, as an EMPLOYEE, and as a MANAGER or TEAM MEMBER. I'm in the process of doing this myself--but then also asking my team to do it so I can just be better. Hey, any insight is good insight? I guess? But when insight isn't good, maybe it can just be GREAT! I took this tool--which you fill out to measure your cognitive abilities, personality traits, and behavioral tendancies--and it said that I am a:

Right? Maybe this is the perfect tool. Or maybe I am. Whatever.

I'm not quite sure yet whether or not this is just kind of like a horoscope yet, because I haven't looked at what other people might be. But LOOK--the tool said I AM MAVERICK, and kind of hit the nail on the head with a few things. Even a jet, the F14 original Top Gun style and not the new F18 style--so maybe that is because I am an OLD Maverick. We'll see.

Maybe you probably won't be lucky enough to ever manage me, or manage anything for that matter, maybe you're a full-manager, maybe you're a freaking manager of managers, all you do is manage until you're blue in the face, but you should totaly take your PI and see if it somehow relates to your favorite movie or life or when you were 12.

Right now my favorite part of Top Gun: Maverick has to do with the character of Phoenix (pictured below). She is a badass and in one scene she has my favorite line of the whole movie. SPOILER ALERT--it happens when essentially Maverick has to STEAL A JET because he's just been fired so that he can prove to his mean John Hamm Admiral Boss that he is the best of the best and it really can be done--well he STEALS A JET and proves that miracles can happen--while he is doing it, right before he does it, they cut to Phoenix who says in the coolest voice ever, "Nice."

That's my point.

There's what happens in that moment between what has happened and what will happen. Sometimes I feel like I'm stuck right there where anything is possible. Like the Lottery. Like when the missle that's going to blow your jet smithereens is fired and when it hits. Like the space between jump and gravity and impact--or flight. Like that little blink between laughter and tears. There's that moment.

"Nice."

Worth the price of admission, even 36 years later.

[cricketrocker]

True Confession #1: 175 million to one or odds for all the things or luck

Some people have a bucket list of the experiences or achievements or hopes or felonies they hope to accomplish or commit during their lifetime. I've always wondered why it was called a "bucket" list but some not quantitative research on Google indicated that it's short for "before you kick the bucket" list. In any case. I woke up too early this morning and rather than opting for rowing machine, I started compiling a new kind of bucket list: true confessions.

Here we go. True Confession #1:

Since the dawn of the COVID era, I have started buying MegaMillons and Powerball lottery tickets, every time the jackpot exceeds $100 million. There are some other boundaries. Only for Friday and Saturday drawings. Well, not many other boundaries. Typically on Thursday or Friday morning, I'll pull into the Tom Thumb grocery store right by my workplace betwee 7:05-7:15AM. I'll buy some snacks for the week that will enable me to skip lunch. Then when the checkout option gives me the "want some cash back, you sucker?" option, I click yes and get $20 cash. I'll complete my purchase then hit the Texas Lottery vending machine on the way out the door. One for the Friday PowerBall, one for the Saturday MegaMillions. I sometimes wonder if anyone is watching. I skulk out to my vehicle, put the tickets in the center console. Then I proceed about my day. A little bit of banked endorphined imagined possibility.

The odds of winning the MegaMillions or Powerball lotteries are, according research conducted concurrently for the origin of "bucket list" an incomprehensible 175 million to 1. I use the word "incomprehensible" because those odds are made up of numbers and ratios and though I managed to pass Quantitative Research Methods/Statistics in my doctoral program this past spring, I'm definately doing a qualitative disseration. In any case. 175 (million) to 1. Odds--in statistics--are the probability that an event will occur divided by the probability that the event will not occur. In this case, for every favorable 1 (win), there are 175 (million) chances of the unfavorable (loser). That's probably not really the definition, but you get it. This is well known stuff.

But in the console of my car--well, another true confession moment.

True Confession #2: I no longer drive Jane, The Black Pearl. I now drive Jane, The Hell Bitch. Before judging me on the that, know that is a Lonesome Dove novel reference, the Hell Bitch part. That was the name of Captain Call's horse. It is not rude, just inspirational. Symbolic. The Jane part, remember, is what all my cars have been named in the post-piece-of-crap-Saturn era (post-2001). This a whole separate post someday.

Coming soon. True confession about the truck.

Back to #1, though. While you're still judging me on the mid-life truck, please try to focus back on the lottery tickets in the center console. I'm writing this on a Sunday morning. There are two tickets right now that I have not checked. I am content to not check them right now. Maybe all day. Maybe I won't check them for a week. Having passed Quantitative Research Methods/Statistics (did I already mention that? #flex), I am aware that the probablity of being impossibly wealthy is almost nothing.

However. You can say whatever you want. The probability is not nothing. The probabilty is not nothing. Not nothing.

At this very moment, the two tickets in Jane's console are representative of a not nothing chance of imagined infinite possibility. They are representative of imagined infinite possibility. Say that again, but this time imagine an instrumental harp flourish. Imagined infinite possibility.

For this moment, the probability is not nothing, and I have not yet demonstrated that I am not the winner of a fated fortune.

Instead, in the moments preceding when I choose to validate the brutal and practical and infinitesimal actuality that there will be no random-luck riches, I will imagine a little. Recently, I've shopped Google for "Castles for Sale" in the United Kingdom, mainly. I've made mental notes of my altrutistic intent. A building or two I would endow either at my alma mater or my workplace or in the city town square--with a requisite statue. I haven't quite figured out how I'd be statued, but I think the statue has to also be part of an elaborate water feature. Yep. I'd really want to give out a ton of scholarships. I'd really want to give out as many "make a wish"-style opportunities and moments. I don't really know. What I realize the most lately, though, is that I have no imagination. Or not much of one. I still have not checked those tickets from last weekend. Just maybe. The chance is not nothing.

There are spaces of quiet and limbo and of infinite possibility and of fortune. The bittersweet torment of longing for that infinitesimal treasure...and while that's my confession of this moment, there is something else. Perhaps the cosmic lottery, the infinitesimal chance of losing that which is most important, of that which cannot be recovered, of the run stoplight, of the lightning strike, of the odorless and colorless gas leak, of the mysterious and unknown internal abyss of a despairing teenage mind.

What is the very opposite of winning the lottery? Is it losing infinite possibility or all possibility? What is the imagined pleasure that maybe--for just a little while--a parent might be that lottery winner after all--versus the opposite--the unimaginable despairing of infinitesimal loss? That family has lost a son, that is all, he was beautiful, that is all.

What are the chances of winning the world? What are the chances of losing the world? What is the lottery of every second? Everything is 175 million to 1, right? My heart is broken for my friend. I am not helpful and neither are words. I am so thankful, though. So many infinitesimal chances leading up to right now. There is nothing truer than there is what there is.

[cricketrocker]

https://youtu.be/a6jt3Vufa9U