One Realization That Leads to Another

Today is the Feast of Epiphany, according to Western Christians. According to Wikipedia, the feast day commemorates not only the arrival of the Magi in Bethlehem, but the “revelation of God the Son as a human being in Jesus Christ.” I’ll buy the Magi’s arrival; it’s the manifestation of God part that stretches the date’s credibility. Not that there is anything wrong with it. It just isn’t for me.

The same Wikipedia page has a link to the page for “Epiphany (feeling).” Which credits James Joyce for possibly coining the usage of epiphany to mean “an experience of sudden and striking realization.” His stories in The Dubliners all involve characters coming to some realization that alters their view of themselves or the world around them. It is conceivable that large doses of beer and whiskey may have had something to do with those “striking realizations.” Interestingly, for me, anyway, the author of this particular page also equates William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch as a terminology of epiphany, as well. How do Christians feel about having a word so closely associated with the first big feast day of the year secularly implying “drug-influenced state(s)” and beer-soaked revelations? Then again, the Magi brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Frankincense and myrrh are both popular for use in incense, and we know who burns most of the incense, don’t we? Let’s just say many of us stop “burning incense” when we get out of college.

Perhaps, in a related vein, back in 1974, Tom Scholz was burning incense when he had an epiphany in his basement in 1974, and the song “More Than a Feeling” manifested itself in his mind. Boston, my favorite band EVER, released the song on their 1976 debut. I am certainly not trying to equate Tom Scholz with the Son of God. Nor am I implying that “More Than a Feeling” is a song of anything more than mild musical significance. It just happens to be where my mind took me on this particular intellectual exercise.

Maybe more significantly, today is also the birthday of Jeanne d’Arc, according to some sources. Being an inveterate skeptic, I suspect that her birthday is more than likely not on January 6. It just seems too coincidental that the day that the (arguably) second most famous Christian martyr (sorry John, the Baptist) was born on the same day as the manifestation of the first most famous martyr as a human being. Then again, if one negates the manifestation of the Son of God thing (see paragraph one), Joanie’s birthday is a bit easier to swallow. At any rate, Joan was a fascinating young woman--most likely delusional, but fascinating nonetheless. And without her inspiring and tragic tale, we would not have one of the most beautiful silent films ever (The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928)) nor one of the best-known Smiths songs (“Big Mouth Strikes Again”). Granted one might argue that the Smiths couldn’t have written that song without the invention of the Walkman, either. You might also argue that they might have written the song even without the allusion to Joan (or a Walkman), but that just wouldn’t be the same song, would it. At any rate, wouldn't it be sad if the Smiths were most well-known simply for "Girlfriend in a Coma." Seriously.

Most unfortunately, however, today is the final day of Winter Break for kiddos in this neck of the woods. Tomorrow, we will be back to shaping young minds. And I hope to find more time to keep up with this blog, albeit with a new focus. Instead of Central Standard's traditional, unfocused, hard to maintain ramble from random thought to random thought, I hope to focus on today's tone of edification and the loose division of fact and opinion to create a regular discussion of topical current and historical events.  If anyone has any ideas for topics, leave a shout in the comments.

Thanks for stopping by!

The Magic Comes to an End

Summer
It turns me upside down
Summer, summer, summer
It's like a merry-go-round.
--The Cars, "Magic"

This is always a bittersweet time of year for me. Tomorrow is the first official day that teachers are to report for duty. Students will not arrive until next Tuesday, and I have actually been doing some form of "work" or another since last Tuesday, but tomorrow it is official.

On one hand, I am, as I am every year, excited to get back to teaching. I am eager to get to know my new classes and eager to meet all the challenges that a school year brings (some more than others, of course). I am also looking forward to some new challenges, as this year marks my first as yearbook adviser and I have been asked to mentor a new teacher. Every school year seems to bring something new: a new standardized test, a new policy, a new appraisal process, a new administrator, a new class to teach...so much new.

But, as I look ahead upon the challenges that await, I also look back on the freedom that I will lose, again, for nine months. No more sleeping until seven or eight (or later, if I wanted to). No more travel (not much, anyway). No more choosing to do anything without thinking of the five AM wake up on the other end, or the stack of papers to grade, or the lesson to tweak.

In the long run, that's okay. After all, it is a luxury few people have, an eight week layoff with pay. So, I am sad to see it go, but appreciative that I had it.

I didn't really do much professional work this summer, which is fine by me, but that is a rarity. Almost always, I have a workshop or a class to attend, or I read something directly related to my field (besides journals). This year, I did nothing like that. In some way, as an English teacher, every book I read is some small form of professional development, but my choices this summer were selfish. Nothing I might teach as a whole class novel (but plenty I would recommend as personal reading).

So, this summer, perhaps more than any summer since Monkey and I went to Italy, has been a treasure and a joy. It didn't go exactly as I wanted it. My peppers and tomatoes are still lagging behind; I didn't fish as much as I might have liked; I didn't write enough. However, except for the tomatoes, I can say that about every summer.

I'll miss you, my good friend, Summer. I have enjoyed every sweat bead and sun burn, every glass of iced tea and cold beer, every tomato cheese sandwich. I enjoyed crabbing with my nephews and helping them master the techniques of boogie boarding. I enjoyed getting obliterated by post-storm waves in the cool surf of the Atlantic. I enjoyed hiking the Rockies and going toe-to-toe with belligerent rodents. I enjoyed a few lazy days reading with Monkey. I enjoyed the occasional ice cream cone. I enjoyed sporadically interrupted fireworks and a trip to Fenway Park on the fourth of July. I enjoyed it all.

Until Saturday night, but, Summer, I will forgive you a ferocious thunderstorm that breaks my trees and cuts off my power for twenty four hours every now and again. Especially since I also enjoyed a ferocious looking light show after the storm.

Now, it's time to get serious (but not too serious) and get to work. Bring it!

I Hate Boston, But I Love Boston

Monkey and I spent the past weekend visiting our friends from the Long Haul Project in Boston. I was not only looking forward to spending time with our “new” friends but never having been to Boston made me look forward to the impending travel even more. The fact that our excursion would occur over the July 4^th weekend made it even more exciting. After all, Boston (and its environs) is the epicenter of the Revolutionary War.

Now, some of you that are close to me, and even those of you who are not particularly close to me, but just happen to be around when I am in a sufficiently grumpy mood, might be a bit confused here, thinking, “Boston? I thought ATR hated Boston.” No. You misunderstand me. Let me clear that up. I do hate Boston…the band. I do not hate Boston, the city.

And, of course, now those of you not familiar with my hatred of Boston are curious to know why I hate said band (again: NOT the city). Well, it’s more than a feeling, I will tell you that. It’s a difficult loathing to describe, or even justify, but there is something about the style that they managed to carefully develop and hew to forever that just doesn’t sit well with me. Their sound is so clean, so clear, so “wah-wah without the wah,” if you will. It just always seemed so produced. And the pitch of the late Brad Delp’s voice was like Cartman’s “brown noise”—it just does bad things to me inside.

However, I stress, once again, that the city of Boston, despite its very, very close ties to the band Boston, is the object of no animosity on my part. Now that we have cleared that up, let’s move on.

There are many things that I expected to see in Boston, the famous Liberty Bell, the Washington Monument, a host of Celtics jerseys. Strangely enough, beside the jerseys, none of that other “patriotic” stuff was there. Our hosts calmly explained to me that those things are located in other cities, I think one of them was Atlanta, I don’t remember, but I still enjoyed some of the patriotic sites that we did see, like a bronze sculpture of ducks (which was being sorely abused by an army of three year-olds) and a veritable host of soldiers in His Majesty’s Dragoons, or something. I was confused; really, I thought we won the war. Apparently, nobody in Boston was told. Does that make Tom Scholz and Brad Delp the founders of a British band? Do they have more in common with The Who and Pink Floyd than .38 Special (WARNING: link plays "music") and Toto? But, I digress.

What I loved about our trip, aside from the company (both the expected and unexpected kind), was that we enjoyed such a range of experiences. We went to some lovely restaurants, where Monkey and I enjoyed plenty of (but not exclusively) seafood. We miss our seafood out here in the middle of the giant North American continent. We sometimes brave a fish dinner, but not often. It just isn’t the same as having it on the coast. For instance, at our first dinner, at a groovy South End place called the Beehive (where I had my recent smooth jazz experience corrected by the trio that played while we ate), I had a scallop dish that was so fresh and tasty that I nearly cried. It was so nice to have that kind of dining experience.

We also enjoyed Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts (for free—hooray for Friday!) and an exquisite sculpture garden, the de Cordova, where my highlight was Steven Seigel’s “Big with Rift,” which consists of newspaper and whatever happens to come along and grow on it. I give it no justice in the description, but I told Monkey that if I lived nearby, I would visit that piece everyday.

A visit to nearby Walden Pond was also part of the itinerary. The weather held just long enough for us to make our way around the shore to see the site of Thoreau's cabin, to watch a young man release a pretty big fish, and to overhear snippets of every conversation being had. Water is quite a carrier of sound!

While we did experience a wide range of historical, cultural, and gustatory delights, we did not enjoy any musicals. I believe someone did propose we try to get tickets to West Side Story, which was playing nearby. Lucky for everyone, we decided not to.

On the fourth, we headed to the venerable Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox play the Toronto Blue Jays. There were a number of Blue Jay fans there. I think they came south from Canada, although it is possible they are simply part of the Boston population that still thinks they are British subjects. I don’t know what Canada’s status is vis a vis the Crown, but I think they are still more closely aligned than Boston is supposed to be. At any rate, the result of the ball game was favorable to the home crowd (the Red Sox lost—God Save the Queen).

After the game, we had another great dinner near MIT (I think my arctic char raised my IQ five to ten points), and then walked to a nearby bridge to watch the fireworks over the harbor. The evening’s show was great, despite the occasional T train that blocked our view momentarily. It did confuse me, however, when one of the nearby spectators told his son that the fireworks were to signal the Queen that all was still well in her most loyal of colonies. I thought to correct this historical misunderstanding, but the child’s beaming face in the glow of the rosettes and showers of flaming metal through which he waved his Union Jack was so precious, I thought, “Who am I to interfere?”

We walked home along with a mass of people who literally filled the streets. It made me wish we could just get rid of cars altogether, so that everyday bikes and shoes could ride and wander wherever they desired without fear of being run down, backed into, or blasted in the face with exhaust. This is a dream that may never be realized, but, even as it was suggested that this is what the zombie apocalypse might look like, I continued in my reverie undaunted.

And what did this fabulous trip to Boston leave me with? What is my final thought? I have learned that I love Boston, the city, far more than I hate Boston, the band. Rock on!