The Christmas Cactus

A little less than a year ago, I received a Christmas gift. It was a Christmas cactus with a note attached explaining that if I took good care of it, next Christmas it would bloom.  I set it on my desk at work, and as the new year began I made a pledge to myself that despite my decidedly not green thumb, in this case I would channel my father the master gardener and tend lovingly to this cactus, in hopes of seeing the promised Christmas blooms.

The Internet is your friend in cases like this and I found a wealth of advice on how to care for a Christmas cactus, with promises of abundant blooms next holiday season.  I conquered my sense that it would be hopeless (based on the mourned deaths of houseplants past who were unfortunate enough to be under my care).   I acted on faith alone and  entered a repeating note in my computer calendar for each Tuesday morning that said:  “Smile.  And water the Christmas cactus.”  Each Tuesday I did just that.  

A few months ago something told me to move the cactus to a sunnier corner of my office to catch the western sunlight.  In early November the Christmas cactus pushed out many promising buds.  By Thanksgiving, glorious pink blooms emerged.  And they’ve continued to grace my office with their happy color all this holiday season.

I assure you that I am grateful for the many ways this past year I’ve seen proof that faith can work miracles and bring unexpected blessings; I wish both of these for each of you this Christmas season.

The Old Bag Allegory

A domestic conversation with M recently had clear parallels with what I’ve observed at work. At the time, I was performing the mildly onerous daily task of sifting the poop out of the kitty litter box with my trusty slotted scoop and dumping it into one of the used plastic bags we save for this kind of thing. A particularly battered bag had been prominently placed next to the litter box so I went ahead and used it. M said, “From now on, be sure to use the old bags I put by the litter box.”

“Okay,” I said. “But how do you define old bags?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we have a drawer full of plastic bags and to me they’re all used and therefore old bags. But I’m sensing you have a more specific definition of the preferred oldness of the bags to be used for kitty poop and I’m just trying to understand your logic.”

“You don’t need to understand my logic. Just use the bags I set out for you by the litter box.”

“But I do want to understand the logic.”

“Why? Why do you need to understand the logic of which bags are the old bags?” he said with some annoyance.

This is where I started to see the work parallels. I smiled.

“Because, one day when I’m ready to scoop the poop and you are not around, alas and alack there will not be a bag set out for me to use, and I may have to Think for Myself and select a bag from the old bag drawer. Wanting to do the best possible job of following your old bag orders under this challenging circumstance it will help me greatly to know how I can tell which of the old bags are suitably old enough to be graced with cat poop,” I explained.

“Ah—well, a bag that has merely been used to convey vegetables from the grocery store to our house is not sufficiently old. A bag that has been subsequently reused after initial arrival at our house—that is a truly old bag,” he said. We were both laughing by then.

“Aha,” I said. “Now I know.”

And so it goes at work. If you want people to do work that meets your expectations then you had best give them the supporting logic as well, and you’ll get more consistently positive results, even when you aren’t around. They might even help you come up with some better logic; you never know.

“I assume that since you never reuse the green bags the newspapers come in that they can immediately be classified as old bags suitable for kitty poop; would this be a correct assumption?” I asked.

“Why yes,” he replied.

And there you have it.

Eschewing Techie Twinkies

"Moderation in all things - including moderation." - Mark Twain

Too much of a good thing...are social networks, computers, and mobile devices of all stripes robbing us of our opportunity to truly connect with each other and with nature as well as our basic ability to think in depth?
An article in the Sunday Boulder Daily Camera called "The Technology Diet" likens our constant high tech connectedness to a fast food addiction. Some folks, even 20-somethings, are going off the grid completely, seeking to again hear themselves think and get to a point where they can read a book steadily for more than a few minutes without checking email and Facebook.

The article mentions Lewis Mitchell Neef who has posted about Internet craving and the damage it does in his "Adrenal Fatigue Project," a "satire on the pointless blurbs of misinformation that the Internet constantly bombards us with, inducing a heightened awareness and fatigue." Neef urges not to drop out completely but to "use your time wisely and be present" (good advice under any circumstances). Use the Internet to find real connections and further good causes.

Also mentioned is Laleh Mehran's and Chris Coleman's W3fi movement (pronounced "wee-fy"), showcased recently at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art. They outline a three-step approach for being productive and avoiding mayhem on the Internet: know yourself online, be aware how your actions affect others, and know how you can connect with others positively and productively.

Andrew Weil has written another of his excellent down-to-earth books recently called Spontaneous Happiness on finding happiness in the modern world and one of his prime recommendations is to limit digital distractions and seek more connection with others and with nature to find the peace and sense of well-being we all seek.

There was a time I remember, my children, when we didn't carry around cell phones, when we didn't have something called a "digital presence on-line," when we read more, made our own music, had real conversations with each other.

I'm becoming more mindful of that lonely state I find myself in sometimes late at night, continually seeking something real online, long past the point of exhaustion, looking for truth in all the wrong places. That's a strong signal that it's time to power off and tune back in to real life.

The Bug

How to describe my fascination with Ellen Ullman's 2003 novel The Bug? The scene is Silicon Valley in 1984 when the mouse as an input device is still an innovative new technology. The story is told from the perspective of software developer Ethan and a tester Berta--both doing battle (often at cross purposes) to track down an insidiously elusive bug they end up calling "The Jester." The bug takes on a personality of its own, appearing only intermittently at the worst possible times, sabotaging important demos, and ultimately becoming a haunting nemesis for both of them. In the end, Ethan's efforts to debug his code become intertwined with his efforts to debug his life, which is rapidly unravelling all around him as he loses his wife, colleague, and the manager who appreciated him and lured him into the project to begin with despite Ethan's self doubt.

Ethan's real passion is an artificial intelligence program he calls the simulation in which he tries to program his cyber creatures to socialize and thrive. Survival in the simulation depends on whether a cell is surrounded with other healthy cells, but Ethan's creations are not thriving, despite his efforts. The novel's structure is divided into four parts, each preceded with a diagram from the simulation, showing the progression as a hapless cell is deprived of each of its neighbors in turn, paralleling Ethan's own life of increasing isolation.

The author was an English major before she got into high tech (I can relate to that) and weaves a number of literary allusions into the novel including Eliot's Middlemarch, Kafka's The Metamorphosis and Shelley's Frankenstein (the tester's name is Roberta Walton and the name of the narrator in Frankenstein was Robert Walton).

Ullman's descriptions of software engineers and their quirks absolutely rang true from my own experiences in the industry of the 80's--from the relentless fascination with puns to the office collections of toys like squirt guns and boffo swords, to the hilarious description of Ethan's attempts to answer pointed questions from the bean counters about The Schedule while balanced precariously on the only seat remaining in his manager's office--a bouncy ball.

The toys and puns take on a vaguely hostile air as the intense pressure from the venture capitalists to deliver on the impossible schedule increases. Ullman vividly describes the 7x24 obsession with churning out and debugging huge quantities of code and the challenges many technically brilliant engineers have with emotional intelligence and deciphering what is really going on in their bewildering social interactions. She also does a great job of depicting the challenges of management, aka herding the cats--both what an excellent manager can mean to the productivity and sanity of technical people as well as what havoc can be wrought by a terrible manager. She shows rather than tells us these things--with dark humor and clarity. The story does take a very bleak turn at the end, but she has lined up all the events that lead to this so thoroughly that the ending is logical and inevitable.

Ullman also penned a 1997 autobiography called "Close to the Machine: Technophilia and Its Discontents," about her Silicon Valley years as a software developer--she mentions that she was the first engineer to be hired at Sybase to work on the client side of groundbreaking client-server architecture. In "The Bug" the company is called "Intelligentsia" but includes an eerily accurate portrayal of one of Sybase's founders and his habit of nodding and smiling during every conversation regardless of the content.

Other novels have explored the computer world and its sometimes cutthroat ruthlessness. There aren't many novels that delve into the complexity of a coder's brain, motivations and inner life with this level of depth and empathy. To unambiguously tell the machine what it is you want it to do, you often must become part machine yourself--sometimes at great cost.

Authenticity and Facebook

"If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything."

Mark Twain

I found an interesting article in the New York Times last Sunday about authenticity, especially on-line. (Anybody who's been around for awhile surely recalls the old cartoon about how "nobody knows you're a dog when you're on the Internet.") Everybody these days seems to be professing authenticity, a big topic of discussion in connection with the many GOP presidential candidates. One thing I'm pretty certain about: the truly authentic don't have to announce it to the world.

The article mentions Facebook--how it is usually our presentation of "ourselves on our best day." And that a typical person's post is an attempt, consciously or not, to sell him or herself. I think Facebook is a little more complicated than that; people who post are driven by one or more motivations including the need to publicly reveal:

- the best possible face

- a singular item expected to awe/amaze/amuse

- a whine, with the hope for sympathy

- an opinion, with the hope that many will agree with it

- a series of compulsively recorded details about every day life in a ploy for attention

- a polite, dutiful periodic comment in order not to appear to be too much of a lurking voyeur

- a short response to someone else's post to demonstrate solidarity and/or some level of participation in life

There are probably many other modes--do people even think about it anymore? Or is Facebook so ubiquitous at this point that asking these questions is like asking what "mode" somebody is in when they use a telephone or send an email?

I think the underlying motivation is to connect with other people in some way, but without any great investment of time, energy or commitment. However, this basic need to connect is authentic, no? Even though the "face" people present on Facebook may not be truly accurate or authentic, it does give people a way to maintain at least a very low grade connection with others. And so Facebook has redeeming value because it allows people to stay connected albeit in a very superficial way for the most part.

So, back to authenticity--how to define it? Is it telling the truth no matter what, even if it does more harm than good? I think it's telling yourself the truth, and acting in close concert with your most deeply held values, no matter what the cost. Given this, mentioning authenticity and presidential candidates in the same breath seems highly contradictory.

Summersense

The grassy green fragrance of Queen Anne's lace,
The brassy sassy yellow-black sunflowers,
The snowmelt rushing downward

Under soft warm air.
Lightly salted sweat at mouth corners,
Deep breaths.

The last waltz of summer.

***********************

Bill Keller wrote a great column in the Sunday NYT about those plodders on Capitol Hill who are all so very sure of their viewpoints. He says what they all need is a good dose of poetry and he quotes the poetry columnist David Orr who commends poetry for encouraging "hesitation, doubt and ambiguity."

The column also includes these wonderful but sorrowful William Carlos Williams lines:

It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.

I've always believed more progress is made by people who have a modicum of humility about whether they've got all the answers. And yet our election process seems to insist on absolute surety on every subject.

On Songwriting

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung 
Would you hear my voice come through the music? 
Would you hold it near, as it were your own?
It's a hand-me-down. The thoughts are broken.
Perhaps they're better left unsung 
I don't know, don't really care 
Let there be songs to fill the air.

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed 
Nor wind to blow

"Ripple" - Robert Hunter/Jerry Garcia - The Grateful Dead

I’ve been thinking about the experience of writing songs--which I have only done a few times in my life a long time ago.  One friend I know launched passionately into a major period of songwriting recenty, inspired to go actually arrange and make a recording in Nashville.  I’ve seen M launch into lengthy, intricate guitar riffs that are completely improvisational.  I’ve known many friends through the years who have written music.  The other night my brother-in-law played a Beatlesque tune on my back porch that was so good I was trying to dredge up the memory that would tell me which 60’s band recorded it when, only to learn that it was an original.

I myself wrote three songs (that I remember) earlier in my life.  They came to me out of the blue and almost fully formed with only some lyric tweaking needed, and it was like a small miracle each time.  Writing songs is magical.

I just finished reading an autobiography called “Life” by Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones.  The book was aptly named since it is remarkable that Keith is still among the living after his colorful career immersed in blues, rock and roll, and every drug you can name.  The book is surprisingly detailed and insightful and has some special treats for guitarists since he talks about his discovery of open G tuning as well as his early and electrifying (literally) experiences with amps and sound systems.

Keith has this to say about song writing:  “What is it that makes you want to write songs.    In a way you want to stretch yourself into other people’s hearts.  You want to plant yourself there, or at least get a resonance, where other people become a bigger instrument than the one you’re playing.  It becomes almost an obsession to touch other people.  To write a song that is remembered and taken to heart is a connection, a touching of bases.  A thread that runs through all of us.  A stab to the heart.  Sometimes I think songwriting is about tightening the heartstrings as much as possible without bringing on a heart attack.”

Keith talks at one point in the book about the search for the holy grail of the lost chord--many songs have been sung about that one.  Especially interesting to me are the great songs about songwriting, like The Grateful Dead’s “Ripple” quoted above, and of course, Leonard Cohen’s oft-covered “Hallelujah” which also speaks of that elusive chord:

I've heard there was a secret chord

That David played and it pleased the Lord

But you don’t really care for music, do you?

Well it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift,

The baffled King composing Hallelujah.

Hallelujah indeed to all the great songwriters of the world, known and unknown but all appreciated.