RIP C?WC?

The time has come.

Almost three years to the day after the first post here at Crisis? What Crisis?, we’re shutting down. No going-out-of-business sale, with prices slashed and everything available, even the fixtures and furniture (I still need the laptop); no last rites or purification ceremonies; and certainly no tears. No, no need to be lachrymose. It’s just a simple fact: What started out as the documentation of major life changes – some expected, and many not, as changes sometimes are – has outlived its usefulness. I’m moving on, and a new blog is in order. If you haven’t checked it out already, please peruse the first brief posts of A Year in Santa Fe (more or less), my humble effort to show that we can not only endure crisis – crises – but also come out better on the other side. That’s why no tears need be shed. The ending of this blog and the starting of the new one mark a life-affirming transition, one that will be filled, I believe, with great work opportunities (OK, purely blind faith on that one…), new creative endeavors, and a wonderfully satisfying new relationship (got a head start already with that; more to follow in the weeks ahead, I’m sure).

Ah, Chicago!

Yes, as these three years have shown, we are resilient critters, ain’t we, if we put our minds to it. And as my faithful readers at C?WC? know, there has been plenty to test that resilience. The unwanted move from my beloved Chicago; the home ownership in less-than-endearing West Haven; the too-frequent angst over playwriting; and, of course, the marital dissolution (so many posts to choose from to highlight that lovely little part of my life).

Through all that, C?WC? has been my therapy, my connection to friends and family, and a path to meeting new friends and gaining new insights. Yeah, I’ve spewed here at times, maybe too much. But I’ve been grateful to see that some of my words have touched others, and led them to share their experiences and wisdom. It hasn’t been a large community, the people who have come along for the sometimes-wild ride that has been my life these last three years. But knowing someone has been reading and at times responding has been very gratifying, and I thank all of you – all six of you – for your support.

Ah, travel! (Cold War Park, Budapest)

Of course, not everything has been gloom and doom/sturm und drang here at the Crisis. I’d like to think there have been moments of levity. And I’ve gotten pleasure from flexing the ol’ reporting chops from time to time, sharing some of the art events I’ve enjoyed, the lectures I’ve attended, the travels that have kept me engaged with the world. Then there were the political rants; well, I am nothing if not opinionated. All that will probably continue, to some degree or another, with the new blog.

But in general, I don’t want A Year in Santa Fe to be C?WC? all over, with merely some Southwestern spice ladled on top (mmm, green chile…). I want to explore the culture of my new home, the geography, the history, and most importantly, the people. I want my far-flung friends and family to get a sense of what has pulled me to the Land of Enchantment, to see that unique blending of the three cultures that makes being in New Mexico almost feel like being in a foreign land (but please, do remember, it is one of the 50 states; the number of tales about the even well-schooled Americans who are ignorant of that are legion…).

So, that’s it. The Crisis will still exist here on WordPress, and I might link back to it from time to time. I am still an aging writer, but in crisis no more. Life is good. I trust it will only get better.

Cruisin’ Once More

OK, actually Hamilton and not King's Wharf...

Well, well, well. Here we are, you faithful C?WC? readers and me, once again at sea (though if you want to get technical, we’re actually docked at King’s Wharf, Bermuda). Just think, almost 15 months ago to the day, we were just starting the Cruise from Hell (documented representatively here and here), at the very early stages of the New Crisis. Now, I believe, it is a Crisis no more. The divorce is seemingly long past, the house, with just a few snafus along the way, is sold, and I am preparing for the big move to Santa Fe (more on that later).

There has even been a rapprochement – for lack of a better word – of sorts with the Ex. I can honestly say the anger is gone. And even the memory of the pain, once so palpable within every inch of my body and mind and soul, has almost completely faded. I wish her well in her new life. And not to sound caustic or callous, but I have to thank her for doing what she did.

She, I assume, made herself happier than she was when we were together. And she has given me an opportunity to explore new avenues in my life, ones that would not have even appeared on my map if we were still married. The NM move, I believe, will just be the tip of the ol’ iceberg – or maybe the foothills of the mountain I will ascend, to use a more geographically appropriate reference for the high desert of the Southwest.

Bermuda spider (not the technical name, of course) above the rail trail. Holy crap!

But the cruise, the cruise, this was supposed to be about the cruise. So, here’s the skinny: Weather has been spotty, but we have avoided – so far – rough seas. My niece, who is on her first cruise, seems to be having a good time, and I think it’s fair to say we are learning quite a bit about each other and our various life experiences. It is cool to watch kids grow up, whether friends’ kids or relatives, and then be able to relate to them as adults. One of my only regrets about the impending move is truncating the growing relationship with this niece and her siblings, and feeling that I will never have the same kind of relationship with their much younger cousins. I know, maybe some day we’ll have a family reunion in Santa Fe! Or a on cruise! All the cousins and aunts and uncles of all generations! But, um, most likely, maybe not.

Some mighty clear water.

It has been a challenge cramming three adults into a cabin that would be cozy for two, but all in all I think we are holding up OK. No fisticuffs have been exchanged and we are all still talking to each other (but we do have two more days…). Only two full days left; this trip has flown by. I have spent a lot of it alone, as my sister and niece do their own thing, and as a single guy hanging out by himself a lot, I have not met anyone else. Not that I’ve been trying too hard. I mean, I’m open to conversation and interaction, but I don’t seek it out. And everyone else comes with their own group or spouse or partner or relatives who seem to spend a lot of time together. I’m content to read and write and join the activities that do resonate (Celebrity has some wonderful lectures, along with the usual bevy of trivia games. And I even took a dance lesson! Maybe that will be part of the new life in Santa Fe…). And when it comes down to it, watching the ocean scoot by as we sail along, or following the sun’s path as it settles down below the distant horizon on an orange-glow evening, is entertainment enough. Reason enough. The calm all that provides is all I need on a cruise.

So, despite a lot of alone time (for which I had plenty of practice last year on the CFH), this has been a good trip. Relaxing. A needed break from work craziness and the angst of the move (and living with my mother, which is surely deserving of some posts of its own; maybe later. I’m thinking of writing a play about a middle-aged, divorced son who comes to live with his aging mother and hilarity that ensues. In an allusion to the classic Neil Simon play/movie, I was thinking of calling it “Oddest”). I’ve documented my love of cruising at least once here. I know it’s not for everyone, but for me it does bring both peace and fun. (Most times, at least.) I could go off on the things that aren’t so great – and there are always some, no matter what ship or cruise line. But all in all, the energy generated by two thousand people just looking to unwind and have a good time is a nice thing. And having my own positive energy, bolstered by thinking of what (and most certainly who) awaits me in NM, is nice too. Very nice.

So, this post begins the winding-down process of Crisis? What Crisis? As I’ve said before, I want to look forward with only positive eyes when I get to Santa Fe. Record the things I do and the people I meet that keep building on this new sense of inner calm and contentment that has finally come after processing all the divorce crap. Now, I’m not going all touchy-feely on you; there will assuredly be some of the ol’ familiar internal turmoil from time to time along the way. But on the whole, I’m ready to put the past behind me and explore this next phase of my life with energy and excitement and joy. For too long, even before the New Crisis, I had forgotten how to do that. I am ready.

Batter up!

All This Goodness

Well, well, well.

Lots of changes and challenges the last few weeks. Almost all for the good. The big news if you are a C?WC? reader and are not also a friend of your humble narrator on Facebook — the house is sold! I refrained from saying too much about the process here, lest I jinx the whole affair. And it was touch and go for a while: The verbal word that the buyers had their mortgage commitment set off a flurry of activity on my part, as I prepared for the big move to Santa Fe and the smaller — though perhaps more stressful — move to Glastonbury. To spend the rest of the summer at the old homestead. With — gack — my mother.  But as I made reservations and booked flights and generally acted as if the sale were  a done deal, I learned it was not. And not until two days before the supposed closing date did I learn that, indeed, we had a sale.

Can I have a big, effin’ “Phew”?

In the midst of that, I had my date at the Italian Consulate in NYC for my citizenship application. While I won’t say it was a debacle, it was pretty disappointing, and I wonder if I can get all the new documents I need before I make the move to Santa Fe. We shall see. It’s not as if I don’t have enough else to do in the months ahead: work, a cruise to Bermuda, going to NM to find a place to live, packing up the stuff I have not already stuffed into a POD and now have sitting in a warehouse in East Haven, various weekend trips to see friends for perhaps the last time in a long while, unless they can make the trip out to the Land of Enchantment. Not to mention obsessing about the ridiculous political situation rolling on in this country. I would like to personally slap every Tea Party Republican in Congress and say, “Moron.” But that would not fit well with my efforts to strengthen my Buddhist sensibilities, now would it?

And in the midst of all that, there is the amazing, simply unbelievable rapport that has been developing with my new Santa Fe honey, courtesy of the wonders of Match and the Internet. As with the house, I hesitate to say too much, fearing there is not enough wood in New England to knock on to prevent a devastating explosion of all that has been unfolding. Suffice to say, if things work out, my dedicated readers will be reading more about her in my planned new blog, A Year in Santa Fe (More or Less).

So, the upshot of all these recent events? I feel like I am on a good path. Exciting things await in NM — creatively, spiritually, and hopefully emotionally. Life, for the first time in so, so long, feels good. Please tell me I am not writing this with rose-colored glasses atop my head. Hell, even if they are there, I don’t care; in this moment, I am content.

Odds and Ends

Too long, baby, too long, too long since this blog writing thang been done…OK, allusion to semi-obscure blues song out of the way, let’s proceed.

Been plenty of times over the past few weeks when I’ve thought about C?WC?, but then never done anything about it. Lots happening, as usual, and some of it is actually — well, good might be an overstatement. Let’s say all right, shall we? So here’s a brief recap of all that has been going on, with reference to posts thought about and never written.

Let’s get the not-so-great out of the way first. Umm, work still sucks, though it is not as overwhelming as it was 6 weeks ago. The house sale, which I have scrupulously avoided mentioning here lest I jinx things, has gone from a done deal to a “Well…” So I have a house full of packed boxes and various reservations made, and the whole thing could still blow up in my face. Lovely. I am trying really hard not to think about the worst-case scenario. And actually, last night, as I said I was angry about lousy things beyond my control, part of me felt strangely calm. And thinking things will be fine.  What else? Oh, I broke the screen on my netbook. But in a bold display of derring-do, I bought a new screen online and am GOING TO REPLACE IT MYSELF! I will let you know if  said netbook is still functioning afterward.

This is in sort of the neutral category: I stopped seeing Dr. Chomsky. Not because I’m “cured,” god knows, but the no-insurance thing was becoming an issue, and I thought the impending (ha!) move would take me too far away. I went through a little withdrawal the first week during what had been “our” time, but it’s gotten better since. Actually, much of my emotional life feels better these days; better able to roll with the punches, no Ativan in several weeks, optimism/excitement for the future, assuming the sale goes through. Still too much of the Ex in the head though, but even that is getting a little better.

The time with the good doctor was definitely good, on the whole. Was not so sure of his old-school, long-silences style at first, but over time my ramblings in between the gaps seemed to get us — me — to some better places. Funny, I freaked when he said long ago not to even consider a new relationship for at least a year after the divorce. Now I don’t think it’s going to be an issue for a long time. Nothing on the horizon, and that is ok.

So, the mostly positive memories of my therapy is a good segue into the good things in life. There was the conference in DC back in May, which seems like an eon ago and which I wrote about briefly here and planned to write about more, but it seems so dated now. As I said, it was a great pleasure spending time with other history nerds (and I do hope I can resurrect that moribund second blog in the near future). Some small theatrical successes the past few months, enough to convince me — again— that I have just enough talent to keep going, though not enough to perhaps reach the level I would like. I hope the new full-length, when complete, will belie that, but don’t hold your breath.

And there have been the farming adventures. After the success of the scapes, which led to some yummy pesto, I harvested a few of the first heads this week. Perhaps a bit too premature, but I think there will be something edible out of it. And I have been doing my work hours at the CSA I joined, something else I had hoped to explore here, but never did. I’ve weeded mostly, and also spread some rabbit manure. That was loads of fun. There is something therapeutic being out there for a few hours, and knowing your labor is contributing to organic veggies for a lot of people. And there is a social element too, as I chat with Beverly the farm manager and the other members. Overall, I have a new appreciation for people who farm. And for all the turmoil her time at the CSA added to our marriage, I have deepened respect for the Ex, in pursuing her dream and doing the hard work during her volunteer stint. (Did I just do that? Say something nice about the Ex? Hmm, all that meditation/Buddhist reading must be having a cumulative effect…)

It feels like there should be more to say, but I guess my life has been pretty boring. Quelle surprise. And maybe that’s ok. (Well, there is the whole Italian citizenship ordeal, with my big day at the consulate rapidly approaching. I’ll have a report then.) Work and moving certainly add enough stress, but again, I feel like I am handling it better. As always, the support of friends, old and new, has been key. I can’t imagine that ever changing. I have a feeling, based on nothing concrete, that there will be more new people of substance entering my life, especially after the move, and that can only be for the good. And at that time, I hope to start a new blog. More on that when the time is right. Until then C?WC? goes on, even as OEC seems to feel like it has lost some of its punch, a hurricane making landfall. Still some tree-twisting winds and drenching rains, but the true danger has passed. Thank god.

Life After High School – More or Less

I sat there in the stifling arena, the august strains of Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance (March #1, actually; they rarely tell you that, or that there are others. Everything musical – or almost – I learned from the soundtrack to A Clockwork Orange…) played. And played. Over and over again, as 531 graduating seniors entered the Glastonbury High School gym. My niece was one of them, and that’s why I was there. In the same gym where 33 years before I had endured P & C and the intense summer heat while waiting for my short walk up the aisle to get my diploma.

33 years.

Holy shit.

I have not been back to GHS much since then. From the outside, it looks roughly the same. Inside, I’ve heard, it’s much different, much more splendid, as befits a town crawling with McMansions and an even larger group of professionals than the one that had begun making G-bury a favored bedroom town east of the river back in the 60s. (Of course, one must use the qualifying “east of the river,” since so many of the hoity toity types in the Hartford area still can’t imagine a reason to venture over to this side of the river.)

As I drove into the school last night, my mind flashed back to many moments from my high school days, few of them admirable, but all them seemingly normal for the era. The hours spent on “the field,” where hundreds of students daily, openly partook in certain, ah, recreational activities (and which once led to a 3-day suspension for your humble narrator – yes, the soundtrack LP is still on…), the near-bust on same said field during a dance, the embarrassment of trying to deliver a speech while running for the student council – a seat I definitely did not deserve, given my condition during most council activities.

There were good moment, though. Some. None of them involving academics, of course, but it was high school, for god’s sake. There were the hours playing setback; the articles I pseudonymously wrote for the school newspaper on music, marking the birth of my writing career; performances by Simon Magus, the band for which I was the roadie/driver/sound technician and horticultural specialist.

My god, is that really all I can remember of high school, actually in the school?

Yeah, pretty much.

OK, a generic graduation pic, but they're kinda all alike...

I did have one other memory last night, one tied to my graduation of 33 years ago. As most of my classmates prepared to go to the “sanctioned” party and I and my friends, the Derelicts, did not, I saw a girl I had known since middle school. For a few years, we had been close, part of a clique that spent many hours together in and out of school. I have fond, vivid memories of the two us of meeting at the town library after school, just hanging out and being silly. Maybe it was flirting, I don’t know. Then and now, I am not well schooled in what constitutes that fine art. But I do know, one afternoon the two of us sat along the stone wall by one wing of the library, under a huge old tree (if I were a better writer, with a command of detail and an arborist’s vocabulary, I could tell you the genus and species, and describe the texture of its centuries-old bark. But I am not). And we hugged. Not chest to chest. No, it was arms-around-the-waist, hips fairly close, torsos pulled back, so we could look each other fully in the face. And in that moment, I was very happy. In the glow of nostalgia I might even say it was one of the  best moments of that time, with nary a drug in sight.

Nothing ever came of those after-school trysts at the library. We were very different people, even if we had spent together many adolescent hours of laughing and listening to music and exploring the power of double entrendres. And those differences magnified as we went through high school, each drifting into different groups, different interests. But once in a while during those four years, if I saw her by herself in the cafeteria, I would stop by, say hello, chat a bit. I always liked her and respected her intelligence, which I sometimes thought she tried to obscure. And I thought it was very noble, very brave, of her to spend time with a certified freak in such public view.

She surprised me on graduation night, this one-time close friend and library hip-hugger, but now a mere acquaintance. As I prepared to leave the school for my party and she prepared to go inside, we stopped to talk. Maybe say goodbye forever. Who knew where we would end up? And after our few words, she shocked me. She gave me a hug, a real hug this time, and a kiss. Nothing passionate. But it meant a lot to me. And she said – or else  I merely conjured an enduring  memory of something that never happened at all – that it was too bad we hadn’t spent more time together.

Too bad indeed.

So, driving by that spot last night where we said our senior so-longs, all this flooded back. Along with other memories of those distant years. And then I entered the gym and sat through Elgar and all the speeches and the in-jokes only the seniors could appreciate, and I thought this:

If you are not the graduate or the parent of a graduate, graduation has got to be one of the most godawful wastes of one’s time.

So much talk about the four years just completed. So much talk of the great future to come. OK, I admit, OEC has left me a little cynical about many things. I guess sitting in that gym 33 years ago, I did see a great future ahead. A great life. Not cure-cancer or make-a-million great, but great on my terms, as I defined it. But now?

Well…

And it wasn’t just cynicism that bubbled up a bit to burn my throat. There was jealousy. I heard the academic accomplishments and extracurricular achievement of the top 3 students and I thought: Man. Not only did they do more than I could have ever imagined doing during high school (did I imagine much that did not entail partying, music, or some combination thereof?), they’ve already done more than I’ve done in the 33 years since. Except get divorced, of course. It’s a fair bet I had everyone one of them beat on that score.

I’m glad I saw my niece get her diploma. I’m glad she and her classmates have their whole lives in front of them. I hope they achieve all the dreams they have now and the ones yet to be imagined. I just wish – or wished in that wistful moment last night in the gym -  that I had used my four years better. Used my life better. And been a better flirt in those days outside the library.

Breaking News!

The scapes are in! The scapes are in!

OK, maybe not as memorable as “The phone book is here!” but still plenty exciting for me. The first  bounty from the gourmet garlic garden has arrived – the scapes, the long, thin, curly stem that emerges from certain strains of garlic. Scapes are a tender, delicate, and short-lived spring delicacy, and I once thought I would have enough to try to sell some to a local restaurant. Well, not quite. But there’s more than enough to make pesto with, which I will do for this weekend’s free concert on the New Haven Green (Yo-Yo Ma, outdoors, for free? How do you beat that?). I tried a basic recipe tonight, and it was tasty. I think Saturday’s version will include toasted walnuts and more basil than I used tonight. Yum.

The garlic harvest itself will probably start in a few weeks. As you can imagine, the different varieties have different ETA’s. I don’t expect super-sized heads, for a number of reasons (including the organic farming methods and my slightly premature planting last fall). But whatever I get will be welcome. If you are a fan of the stinking rose, there is nothing like fresh (well, dried first, of course), local garlic.

And in the weeks to come? Maybe I’ll finally do the follow-up post on my Washington BIO trip (already seems like ages ago…), and the housing situation, which I am still reluctant to talk about lest I jinx things (yeah, add superstitious to the list of foibles, quirks, and oddities). Till then, it’s work, work, work.

Jonesin’

Hello, my name is Michael and I’m an addict.

Wow, that was not easy to write. But I guess it had to be done. I had to come clean. It was becoming too apparent, after binging three weekends out of the last four, and then crashing hard. I think I’ve been hiding it well from most people, but my therapist knew. He called me on it this week. And I had been rolling it around in my head for quite some time now, as I replayed all the searing, soaring highs and the near-suicidal lows. The worst came the other day, when my first major meltdown in weeks had me bemoaning my fate, my self-created problems, my sense of worthlessness. All tied to my addiction.

So, yeah, I’m coming clean. I am addicted to social interaction. Oh, not just any interaction. I’m not the butterfly, flitting from superficial flower to flower of encounter. No, I am the wasp, stinger at the ready, plunging deep into the vein of human connection, seeking a soul-to-soul link.

In the middle of my binges, I have no doubt that what I’m doing is right. Healthy, even. Certainly satisfying. But it’s the comedown, as always, that’s a bitch, the inevitable withdrawal that comes when I go back home, alone, spend work day after work day alone, cook and eat too many meals alone.

Ok, we can end the extended metaphor now, yes? But the point is a legitimate one, I think. And my therapist did use the word “crash” to describe the transition he hears me recount too often, and that I can see for himself, when I go from a sustained encounter with my best friends – or even a less-involved-yet-still-rewarding weekend, like my recent experience in DC – back to the lonely routine that has been my life for almost a year. What can I say: The nights, and especially the weekends, I spend with the people dearest to me make me feel alive. Valued. Like a person who has so much to give. And then the return to the too-empty home (especially on the days of late when even Callie was not there, staying instead at my mother’s in between my weekend jaunts), is just such a let down. Such a reminder of the constant companionship I once had, whatever the flaws of the marriage, and of the possibly long stretch of loneliness to come.

I realize too, as I think about my social addiction, that I didn’t get a strong enough fix from others when I was in Chicago, or at least not until it was too late, when the Ex had already come to her unspoken decision about what was to be. Not getting my high outside the home, I put too much pressure – unconsciously, mostly – on her to be my source. She was not up to the task. Perhaps no single person could have been, or should ever be. I suppose that is one healthy thing I’ve learned as I still struggle with this addiction: Always have many supply lines in the quest for the social buzz.

Perhaps another lesson is to cultivate more self-reliance. Grow your own, so to speak. As part of my metta meditation, I say this in my mix of phrases: “May I find peace in solitude and self-reliance.” And as part of the process, I wish for all other beings to find the same peace. For the reality is, as much as we are linked by the shared quest for happiness and reducing suffering, by our shared essence of energy manifested in corporeal form, we are often alone. Physically, emotionally, existentially. And coming to grips with that seems like a healthy thing. If often daunting.

And yet…and yet. As I’ve learned this past year, the loved ones in our lives help keep us grounded. Give us love. Remind us that life is worth living, when at times our saddened and self-absorbed egos might think otherwise. Our friends and social interactions of all kinds stimulate our minds, comfort us in troubled times, provide a needed audience for the expression of our passions. Perhaps most importantly, my loved ones make me laugh and open themselves up to my attempts to make them laugh. I do not know if there is anything more fulfilling on God’s great earth than a shared laugh with someone we love. Except perhaps a hug that fills our entire body with calm and warmth and the mutual sense of contentment. I know in my head what those are like. I long for feeling them again in the flesh.

Until then, the laughs will have to suffice. They are my real drug, the ultimate reason for all those hours spent joyfully off the wagon and with my friends. The laughs, along with the honest talk, the true emotions. I do not apologize for that addiction. No, I crave it. Even knowing the crash that will always follow.

BIO Bits 1

What a whirlwind weekend in our nation’s capital, mostly centered around the 2nd Compleat (their spelling, not mine) Biographers Conference, sponsored by Biographers International Organization (BIO). After the great evening on Thursday (chronicled here), I was up early on Friday for a pre-conference day of events at the Library of Congress. I’d never visited it on previous trips to DC, and it was a treat. The building itself is stunning, but what’s more impressive are the treasures inside.

OK, before proceeding, a caveat: The events described herein are not going to be too exciting for most people. Let’s face it, reading biographies, I realize, is not everyone’s cup of tea. Imagine the level of intellectual nerdiness you must rise to when researching and writing one. I, of course, am as nerdy as anyone else who attended. But from another perspective, you could say this group of 250 or so people are merely extremely curious people, and finding the story in another person’s life, famous or less so, captivates them. To a person, the biographers get particularly caught up in the research: the digging, the making connections between people and events that are inevitably part of the process, the search for new clues and sources when a roadblock seems to end one path of inquiry.

The one question I heard over and over again this weekend: “Who’s your subject?” Which  leads to the responder unleashing the passion that carries them through years of research and writing. Though not me. One attendee was shocked when I said I wrote a 20,000-word bio of Reagan in 6 weeks. Well, obviously, I said, I don’t spend months in the archives or conducting personal interviews, as so many of my fellow biographers do.  As I’ve confessed many times before, I am a hack. But one who is still intrigued by the process of finding the narrative, themes, through lines, that defines a life. During one of the panels, I scribbled this in my notes: “Every life has a story – is a story – that is both made up of the small and large/profound and mundane, and transcends those individual events, pieces.”

OK,  maybe not so particularly deep an observation. But a similar notion, I think, propels us biographers to find the essence of the people we write about.

And now, back to our recounting of Friday’s events:

We spent the morning listening to Thomas Mann, the head research librarian, who’s written the book on library research. Literally: The Oxford Guide to Library Research, sure to be on your Christmas wish list. He gave us hints for searching the LC catalog and various databases, all of which are available at the library, though most are not at your local library. His talk and the subsequent smaller group sessions at other  parts of the library (photos and images, newspapers and periodicals) left me amazed at the resources we, all Americans, have here at the largest library in the world. The collection has more than 140 million items, including either 22 or 33 million books (depending on the counting system used), 14 million photos and images, ¾ million reels of microfilmed newspapers, and a full set of doctoral dissertations (did not get the # in my notes). And there may even be a book or two of mine: For copyright purposes, the library receives two copies of every book published in the US, though Mann admitted not all of them are retained. So my classic book on how to become a travel agent – probably not on the shelves.

Unfortunately, much of the material has not been digitized, though a good bit has, as you can see here and here. But to really delve into a subject, you have to come to the library and seek out the knowledgeable and eager-to-help librarians. I long for the day when I have the time and money to do just that.

I skipped out of my last session at the library so I could prepare for the evening’s event – cocktails at the home of a Very Famous Popular Biographer. The person, as you might suspect, has a gorgeous Georgetown home (not that I got a private tour or anything. But it’s old, large, and tastefully decorated). Our host graciously posed for a pic that one of the woman on my panel (writing the Young Adult [YA] biography) asked for, holding a tea cup that might have been filled with tea, though the thought flitted through my head that maybe it contained something a little stronger than what we guests were being served (a very tasty vodka-lemonade-fresh mint-and-basil concoction). The apps looked fine too, though little was vegan friendly, something that came up often over the weekend. Thank god the city itself has plenty of vegan options.

At the soiree, I had a chance to chat with a few people on a warm Friday evening, then was lucky enough to get a car ride back near my hotel. I had taken the bus there, and I would reckon I was the only person attending who traveled that way. Yes, I am too cheap for a cab and was able to avoid using one the whole trip, thanks to the convenient location of my hotel and the fairly efficient transportation system.

I made it an early night, knowing the actual conference would make for a long day. More on that later.

On the Road Again

On the road again, with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The excitement is always easy to explain – it’s traveling, for god’s sake! New places, new people (and some old, too, as I visit with some buddies from high school days), educational and informative planned events, and the inevitable unexpected adventures that make travel one of my greatest loves. Now, granted, this trip – a work conference in DC – does not allow for too much free time and Washington wandering. Today is spent mostly in transit and then getting settled in at the hotel. Tomorrow is a full day of pre-conference events, capped with a reception at what is certainly the swanky Georgetown abode of a Very Famous Popular Biographer (more on that after the fact).  Finally, Saturday is the conference itself, then back home early on Sunday.

As to the trepidation:

(Brief interruption for stream of consciousness travel observations: We are in Penn Station taking on new crop of passengers. I have moved to sit behind a nice, small old lady who does not shove her seat back into the knees of the tall gent behind her – at least so far. Thank you! And as I type, I wait to see who will be my seat partner for the next leg of the trip. Come on, hot-looking young Indian woman! No, no old person with too much stuff…and the final sitter is…sort of generic young guy with a  banana and a copy of The Plague. Could be worse, though I’ve never been too enamored with the smell of fresh bananas…)

So, trepidation: several levels at  work here. I am moderating a panel on writing biographies for young adults. I had signed up to attend that one, then received an email from a conference organizer, who had gotten my name from the head of BIO, the group putting on the conference (I described my pleasant first encounters with him last fall in Santa Fe here). I have been, if I can say so myself, fairly organized, even “proactive,” in coordinating the planning with the three panelists. Of course, that is the easy part. Now I have to get in front of the attendees and, you know, speak. Be somewhat coherent. Perhaps even a bit witty. All while facilitating the flow of the panel, including the Q&A.

Holy shit, what the hell was I thinking?

Well, in a very self-serving way, I thought this would be a positive thing. Taking on a new responsibility, challenging myself, and perhaps creating an opportunity to network (a partial rationale for the whole weekend). Yeah, all that crap that I don’t usually do with much ardor, but is “good for me.” But then there’s the flip side: I have to speak in front of strangers! Praise the lord and pass the Ativan.

We, thankfully, have the smallest registered audience of the whole conference (I didn’t tell the panelists this, lest it wound their pride and diminish their commitment to the cause. But from what I’ve seen in our email missives, they are all troupers and will dazzle regardless). And I know I have gotten a little better with speaking in front of crowds, thanks to talk backs at my plays and several eulogies (unfortunately). But there is always a little angst. At least my role as moderator will be kept to a minimum.

Another source of trepidation this weekend: the deadly duo of work and house stuff. I have avoided talking about the latter lately, as we seemingly get close to selling our house. I did not want to jinx it, but as some problems have arisen, I realize what I say or do will not affect if and when things go through. OEC has taught me that, in spades. The amount of control we have over anything that involves other people – which encompasses so much, aside from some pretty basic life functions – is pretty darn small. So, all I know right now is that I stlll don’t know when I’ll be departing the former matrimonial abode.

And the other source? Work, or rather my continuing inability to stay on top of it, for myriad reasons and only some related to OEC. Suffice to say, taking this long-planned, work-related trip seems like a burden at times, when I think of all the looming pressures. It feels like 17 years of doing good work and meeting deadlines could be somewhat sabotaged by my recent bad habits and failure to schedule assignments well. Or I could just be overreacting. As usual.

Random first day thoughts: Amtrak is great. On time, spacious seats, the chance to read/tune out/snooze. A sold out train, so not so good if you got on NYC or later. Better than driving and even taking the plane, when you factor in hassles/expense of that. Who are the congressional douche bags who keep wanting to cut subsidies? In this part of the country, it definitely makes sense.

Work stresses, see above, rearing their ugly head. But I can’t hear you now, lalalala. Maybe tomorrow.

Hotel – great location;  I luck out again, with a Whole Foods right around the corner (though no vegan treats to satisfy a lingering craving. One offering from a local bakery I read about online, but way past the expiration date…). Magritte-esque painting outside is a little weird, but free champagne in the lobby (!)  between 5-6 each evening is a nice touch. Though  having to pay to use the printer in the business center is a joke. It’s a boutique hotel, which means almost constant “cool” music and lame attempts at “hip” art, along with very angular furniture and odd-shaped sinks. Also pricier than what I am used to, but close to the conference center and all in all ok, given the neighborhood. Not touristy; feels like real people live here. Adams Morgan and DuPont Circle are both close by, home to many good restaurants and bars.

Tomorrow – more on the Friday’s event at the Library of Congress, the big cocktail reception, and my experiences as a moderator.

Vegan Bloggers of the World, Unite!

Just a quick shout-out and thank you to my blogging buddy Deb at Invisible Voices ( a site I have long linked to here at the Crisis, which features Deb’s fine writing and beautiful photography). We have corresponded for more than 2 years through our blogs and met for the first time tonight when she graciously trekked into DC to join me for beers, vegan quesadillas, and Ethiopian food (yum!) in the happening Adams Morgan neighborhood. It was a little odd, meeting her for the first time, given that she knows so many of the intricacies of my life (and certainly OEC) through the blog. And yet she still had the temerity to meet me in the flesh – amazing! Here’s hoping we meet again,  whether it’s here, in CT, or perhaps somewhere in the high desert.