Words of Danny O'Bigbelly My idea of a good time

This weekend there will be a memorial service for the headmaster of my high school, on campus, as part of the alumni weekend. I will not be attending, for various reasons. If I was on campus this weekend, I’d certainly attend, from peer pressure as much as anything else, but it would feel odd to me. I don’t like funerals very much, and I never really knew this man very well to begin with.

The fact that I never knew him was a missed opportunity, or at least a regret. I’m not sure that I would have had any real chance to get to know him, but simply taking better advantage of the few opportunities when I might have interacted with him could have been very rewarding.

When I read his obituary, I realize that his life was, in many ways, my dream. The things he did, and the differences he was able to make in the school and the broader American educational system were the sort of things that I could fantasize myself looking back on with intense satisfaction, fulfillment, and pride, if things had worked out differently for me and I’d managed to find an academic post. It should be noted as an achievement of his school that in the three years I spent there, I went from having no particular ambition in life to desiring to become a teacher. In fact, my daydream goal was to return to my high school as a teacher–and I was not alone. Several of my classmates have confessed to having the same fantasy.

None of this was apparent at the time, of course. As a teenager, the headmaster was the symbol of authority and discipline, and authority and discipline are bitter enemies of teenage rebellion. As a newcomer to the school, I was impressionable and the disparaging or obscene nicknames the upperclassmen used consistently–it was very rare that, except in the presence of adults, anyone referred to him by his real name–made me think that perhaps he might be an awful person and that my best bet was to lay low and avoid any interaction with him. After all, unless you were in his class, or attended his teas (which required wearing a jacket and tie, which virtually guaranteed my absence), the only reason you were likely to have to interact with him personally were when he handed you your diploma during graduation, or if you were being kicked out.

What I knew about him I had learned from the school catalog, which had brief biographies for all of the masters, and a letter from the headmaster to the students (which was really meant for the parents and alumni) in the preface of the catalog, and his convocation addresses. I remember barely stifling a laugh when, during one address, as he was urging the students to branch out, to get involved in new things, and not just work on their grades (and grade grubbing), he used the metaphor of ‘workaholics’ in his prepared notes, but during delivery, the last instance of ‘workaholics’ was accidentally pronounced ‘alcoholics’. I don’t think anyone else noticed, except I did see some of masters perk up. Nobody else was paying enough attention.

I knew that he’d done something in the war that earned him a couple of medals, and I couldn’t ever remember seeing him blink. It seemed like his arms and legs were too long for his body, which gave him the sort of apparent clumsiness reminiscent of a gangly, awkward youth who had just gone through a growth spurt. He always seemed confident and alert, but he was never an attention seeker. I imagine that at a party, he’s the kind of person who would end up having an intense, hour-long, life-changing discussion about ‘The Golden Bough’ with someone while everyone else was getting drunk.

And then there’s this.

One evening, I attended a seminar given by some speaker on some subject–both long since gone from my memory–that he introduced. On the podium there was a pitcher of ice water and a few glasses, which the speaker could use to refresh his voice during the lecture.

The headmaster stood at the front of the stage, in front of the podium, looking out over the audience. It was a warm, humid day.  Behind him, the pitcher was sweating. As he began his introduction of the speaker, it began to slide along the podium on the thin film of water that had accumulated on the table. Slowly at first, and then gradually gaining speed, it reached the edge, and fell to the floor.

You can imagine a lot of ways this story might end, and I want you take a moment to imagine them.  It must have been something pretty good, because I still remember it, even though I’ve forgotten the name of the speaker and the subject of the talk.  So let your imagination run for moment. See what you can come up with.  Perhaps he was so startled by the crash of the pitcher that he jumped or fell off the stage. Perhaps the sound didn’t ruffle him at all and he continued on without skipping a beat. Perhaps he extemporized something incredibly witty about the incident and wove it seamlessly into his remarks. Perhaps he apologized for the absence of the pitcher to the speaker. Perhaps, after introducing the speaker, he ran across campus to the dining hall in order to get another pitcher of ice water for the speaker, sacrificing his dignity to be a good host.

Here’s what happened. I hope you won’t be disappointed.

After serving at the school for something approaching thirty years, the headmaster was so familiar and comfortable with his surroundings and his role that he appeared completely at ease. He had probably introduced a few hundred speakers by this point in his life. And yet he was still completely there and not just going through the motions on some sort of oratorical auto-pilot. He was in the moment. He was always in the moment.

As the pitcher began to move, it attracted the attention of the audience. He might have noticed that the eyes that had been watching him were now focused on something else. And when the pitcher tipped over the side, he might have heard the gasp (and the beginning of a laugh) came from the audience. However it happened, he was immediately aware that something was happening behind him.

Using some combination of the skills that had made him a squash star in college or earned him a Distinguished Flying Cross in the contested skies over Europe, he turned, lunged, and caught the pitcher before it hit the floor.

Rest in peace, Headmaster Bruce McClellan.

I am awake at this obscene hour because of a nightmare. It’s a new one; I haven’t had this one before.

But before I tell you about this nightmare, I need to explain about my previous nightmares.  (I would write “my usual nightmare”, except that the  word “usual” might be interpreted to mean that it happens frequently, which is incorrect.  It’s a rare but repeated dream.)

I wonder whether anyone else has had this nightmare, or whether I’m just insane.

I’m running down a dark, dilapidated hall. Doors are everywhere, but all of them are locked. I know this without trying them.  None will open.  They are decoration.

I’m running as fast as I can (which in my dream is impressively fast, unlike real life).

I am running because I know that I am not alone.

There’s also monster in the hall with me. I can’t see much of it because the light is poor, but every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of part of it. It is huge and horrible. The building shakes under its massive footfalls.

At the end of the hall, there’s an open door. It is the way out.  It is the only way out.  When I see it, I try to increase my speed, knowing that something undesirable will happen if I don’t get to the door before the monster, but I’m already running flat out. I am afraid I will lose this race.  I’m doing everything possible to get to the door before the monster.  There is nothing more I can do, and it might not be enough.  If I trip or stumble over something hidden in the half darkness, I will lose.  Even if I do everything perfectly, I could still lose.  It will be close.

The monster also sees the open door. It lets out a bellow of rage so loud it raises dust, and shambles forward with a redoubled effort.  It has reserves, and I have none.  It never seems to falter or trip over the debris in the hall.  It accelerates.  The odds are getting worse by the second.

But the monster’s efforts are in vain.  Just as the monster reaches the doorway, I overtake it. It screams in terror as I tackle it and throw it to the floor. Just as I am about to throttle it with my bare hands, I always wake up in a cold sweat, with my heart racing.

After all, violence is the wrong way to solve problems — I’m a bad, bad person to treat any creature like that. I don’t even know why I’m chasing it.  There is never any motivation or back-story, just a chase.  I am wracked with guilt.

OK, so that’s the normal dream.  Told you I was weird.

Tonight was different.  No hall, but instead a maze, with infinite variation.  There are a million corners to hide behind.  And the monster is bigger than ever–how it fits into the hallways of the maze is a bit of a puzzle, but my dreams are not generally bound by the laws of logic or physics, so I don’t believe I can trap it in a tight corner.  It can go anywhere I can go, despite being forty feet long.

But we are not alone.  We are being watched, by thousands of spectators.  The maze is surrounded by some sort of stadium. This is a sport of some kind.  And all of the spectators are rabidly cheering for the monster.  They love the monster.  I have no idea why, especially considering that the monster occasionally plucks an adoring fan from the front row and eats him or her alive–but the empty seat is immediately filled by another cheering fan, and the game goes on without pause.

The monster and I stalk each other through the maze.  Sometimes I think I’m about to ambush the monster, only to find out that it is behind me.  Sometimes I manage to almost creep up on the monster as it is laying an ambush for me.  Nothing decisive happens.  Neither of us has a clear advantage.  I am a man with many frailties and the monster has home field advantage and is a cunning and tireless reptilian killing machine the size of a double bus.  It’s a well-balanced match and could easily go either way.

I am not enjoying this.  I don’t like fair fights.  I like my dreams to be a little more fun.

It probably has something to do with the current swine flu scare.  I have no fear of the flu for myself, but I fear for my friends and family.  It is a reminder that, unlike the world of my dreams, the real world contains monsters I can’t beat, and people I can’t protect.

I just goggled the word ‘wollyburble’ and found no hits.  Therefore, I’m going to claim it as my own word.  It will be interesting to see how long that lasts.

Yesterday I challenged some of my friends to provide topics for blog entries, since I was running short of ideas and since I hate the idea of painting myself into a thematic corner by having a biographic or topic-oriented blog (because this is the usual recipe for success in blogging, and I would hate to appear to be pandering my audience, assuming I ever have one).  They delivered, and I will begin working on them presently.

Some of the topics I don’t really understand, but that’s part of the charm.  In some cases, my essays may tangentially touch on the suggested topics, like the ramblings of a sophomore struggling to fill a blue book with bullshit about sociology in several chapters of a book that he hasn’t actually read, because he elected to spend the previous evening chatting up a charming red-head at a local watering hole instead of skimming quickly over the syllabus.  Although it is arguable that his sociology education was indeed furthered more effectively by his election to perform research in the field rather than the library, the full lesson will not dawn upon him until he learns that the charming red-head is the ex-girlfriend of his grader.  Such are the inflection points in our lives.

See what I mean?

If you wish to suggest new topics, please add them as a comment.

It’s often hard to quantify, when it comes to recreation, the trade-off between the work or investment necessary to participate in some activity and the enjoyment (or other benefit) derived from that activity.  But once in a while it becomes obvious that something that used to be fun has simply lost its charm.

I am a member of a social web site, and for the last several months I have spent a considerable fraction of my discretionary time there.  I write short essays, or answer questions.  Sometimes my essays are serious, but usually they are essentially humorous, casual pieces.  Similarly, the answers may be serious (if the question is asked in good faith, and I have some clue how to answer it) or humorous (if the question is silly or the goal of the question is levity rather than enlightenment).  This was a lot of fun at first, because (somewhat to my surprise, given my training and profession) I am reasonably good at this.  My contributions were regarded as entertaining, witty, and generally a good read.  Besides the fun intrinsic in a creative act, who doesn’t like having their ego stroked by feedback like that?

But eventually both novelties wore off–first, the novelty that the other readers enjoyed in my writing, and later the novelty that I enjoyed by writing about different things.  I stopped getting responses to my writing, and I kept seeing the same questions over and and over and over again.

If my talent was more malleable, I suppose I could have adapted, but it isn’t, and I didn’t.  The character of the site was changing, in a direction that I didn’t want to go, and I could neither delay the change nor did I find the prospect of adapting appealing–assuming I was even able make the change.

That sounds very abstract.  Let me be more specific.  A few months ago, chances were excellent that when I was ready to log out at the end of a session, I would have at least one thing that I’d written that I’d want to share with my wife, because I thought it was good enough that she would find it amusing in some way.  I was proud of it and wanted to show it off.  The last week or so, however, I don’t think I’ve written anything worth forcing my wife to read, or anything really worth reading.  Instead, I’ve found myself becoming so bored with some of the unbearably repetitious or inane questions that I felt justified in answering them rudely, and so annoyed with some of the rude comments that I didn’t bother to address them at all.

If there’s one thing I don’t need, it’s something that aggravates me.  That’s why I go to work, and that’s why they pay me for it.  At home, I want something fun.

So this morning I walked away.  My account is still there, and anyone who wants to can find me easily enough if they want to stay in touch, but I’m not going to be contributing so often–perhaps not contributing at all, unless it really starts to look like fun once more.  I probably will check in every once in a while, just to see what kind of discussion topics are floating around, but I don’t have much optimism that things are going to change very much, or very quickly.