Spent Thursday through Saturday in Medford, Oregon, seeing the man about a job.
There's a large retailer that talked I with about a purchasing position. Went well, liked 'em, they liked me, they hired me. It looks like a pretty good thing. I'll be leaving Seattle on the 7th or 8th of September.
Let's say that I've come to terms with leaving. Let's say that I've been coming to terms about what's best for me for the past few years. I am slow, what can I say. That decision looks ludicrously easy: I'm going to do the best thing for me. You all know what an obvious, difficult idea that is.
There's a provocative book, Stumbling into Happiness, that explores how poorly we humans are at imagining our future. Malcolm Gladwell provides an enticing synopsis for Amazon.com if you're interested.
Dan Gilbert makes one jolly claim in Stumbling that is disturbing. We don't make good decisions about the future because, in part, we think that we as individuals, are unique. It's not difficult to imagine what will make us happy. There are plenty of role models. He makes a long nuanced argument about this and I think that his conclusions makes common sense.
As I've torn apart my individuality over the past two years, I know that I've invested heavily in a pride about my specialness and it's hurt me. Not to worry, I'm not turning into a square peg for a square hole. The deal here is that some things have gotten clearer, less special, more precious. The lessons are dirt humble. I'd only feel comfortable sharing them sitting with a glass of whiskey as a boozy cover. Here's to finding a place in Oregon with some comfortable chairs for the next time I see you.
Indulge me, for a minute, about one of life's great pleasures: the mystical, uninterrupted drive across the city. During rush hour. In Seattle. AND upon arriving home, I snagged the closest street parking at my building.
Circumnavigating (okay, I know that's incorrect but there's got to be some giant important-sounding term employed here: "citynavugating" maybe?) downtown unstopped, from Queen Anne to Capitol Hill is an awesome feat.
Typically, it's a fifteen minute drive, lots of lights, always some snarls. Ten minutes is good. I made it in around five minutes. Of course there's some luck involved, but I changed lanes seven times to preempt any left hand turners, buses, or flow-eating queues.
This was a thing of beauty. Paradoxically, it was over so quickly it only registered as I was on the final leg, going up the hill. I guess that's how it works in the zone. I would be the last person to tell those other drivers to "Eat my carbon footprint," but I am pretty happy about my little trip.
My new favorite Rupert Murdoch mouthpiece, the Wall Street Journal, has this amazing, creepy story about the online fantasy land, Second Life. Who needs bodysnatchers when we've got ourselves?
Kenny Rogers still provides the most useful structure for decision-making in my world. You know: hold 'em, fold 'em; walk away, run. Maybe I'd adopt a more awesome rule like Kant's Categorical Imperative if I had a clue about what it means.
For now, I'll stick with the Yes/No, On/Off, Dog/Cat, Coke/Pepsi world of oppositions that Kenny hath wrought.
No more ado: patience is my new virtue. You could consider it a sister art of being methodical, which is also a newish trick that I've been attempting. Something like Patience is being methodical while being challenged.
My final drawing class was last night. Friends, drawing is patience. More than anything, I learned that no matter how gifted a draftsman you are, drawing takes time, mistakes and more time.
Our challenge last night was to produce a shaded drawing of a spot-lit plaster cast of a human foot. My perspective caused a severe angle with a scrunched view of the toes and shadows that made the bottom shape subtle, elusive. My reaction to my first quick outline was that it was horrible. Not the way to do it. The better way to think here is that this is the start, the sculpture underneath has yet to be revealed.
So after helpful advice from the instructor, I kept carving and different parts started to look footish. This poor person still had terrible problems with his toes (industrial accident? land mine? kickboxing?) which were bunchy and alien.
Round two of advice: see the big toe as one block, the rest of the toes as another. Get the shapes right, then worry about the detail. Okay. This was still hard but I blocked in the shapes using reference points to align the parts correctly. Wow! The swelling in the foot was reduced and the patient had a chance of keeping his appendage.
I could continue with tales of getting stumped, figuring it out or getting help. The point is that drawing complex things is hard. It is difficult. Every time. The only solution is to try. You then get closer or not. You do it again and again. You build in giant mistakes while you learn to see and get your arm under control. I expect that as I continue, I will make just as many mistakes, they will most often be more refined.
This was patience in action. Kept making marks until I felt stuck. Got impatient, called for help. Did not fret. Fretting no good. Fretting is not movement, it's being stalled. If there was no help, I looked harder and then made more mistakes. The positive person in me thinks it's more like focusing binoculars. When you put them to your eyes, do you toss them down in frustration if you can't see? No, you adjust them until you can see.
There are no shortcuts here. I had continued to hope for them, fretting all the while, fearing the irreparable mistake, staying stalled. Silly man, it's all about the mistakes, the attempts to get it. I want to be like those guys hanging in museums, passing time with my pencils and paper, hands and eyes. I want to keep correcting, sharpening my focus, taking the time to find my subject in all its breathtaking clarity.
