I was nervous about the snow all night. I couldn't sleep, I hate the white-knuckled driving, the fear of skidding and spinning 360 degrees hitting all kinds of passing vehicles. I have been doing it sans incident for 19 years now and I am still afraid. So I kept looking out of the window, at regular intervals, all night, watching everything getting blanketed in white and planning the email I would send my boss asking if I could work from home, planning my snowday attire and the most efficient way to get - cleaning the driveway, the car and then battling traffic in order to catch the 7:15 bus.
Nothing beats having a plan. If there is a plan in place things tend to go according to plan for the most part, Murphy's law notwithstanding. So come Monday morning, granted I hadn't had any sleep but at least I had a plan. Things went as planned, I cleaned the driveway, the car, made my bus and spent an hour snoozing and wondering if I would have to step through slushy, slurpee-like snow in the streets to get to work. I was hoping no one would look at me askance for my jeans and snowboot attire on a Monday.
So of course they would look at me funny! There is no snow in New York City! The streets are dry and some are dressed as if spring is just around the corner. No snow, no slush, nothing! The streets are as dry as can be. How does this happen! A fifty mile difference and no gentle gradations in weather. It's another climatic region here in NYC. For the rest of the day I'll be explaining how wintry it was where I live, hence the attire. Not that anyone really cares how I am dressed, it is all in my head, my lifelong fear of standing out when all I really want to do is blend in.
Well, I am glad I'll be sending 8-10 hours in a warmer place. It's a bright and sunny day here and I come here full of hopes that I will continue to try to work with stoic grace.
Grace being the key. It's just work. It's what one needs to do to live and one needs to do it without complaining, without appearing as though storm clouds are perpetually hovering over ones head. Working down my list of things is the way to go, without whining, complaining, rolling my eyes at things that don't make much sense and mostly trying not to be snippy. Grace and "snippy" do not go hand in hand. I have to promise myself to hide that certain edge, that caustic drip that appears in some of my responses to people. There is no need for it. And what's more, it doesn't make me feel good about myself and I am entirely too conscious of doing it.
There was a time when I didn't think people are so sensitive to tone or to antagonistic postures and body language. I didn't think that my face, how I hold myself - my arms, my stance, how I convey a message in writing, all send signals to people and that people are always trying to read between the lines. I am surprised I was so oblivious to it because don't I always try to delve deeper and go for what someone REALLY means? I do, quite consistently. So why didn't I think others do the same?
Or perhaps I thought that if I am saying I'll do something - or that I'll carry out a request -without an accompanying smile or without an indication of calm acquiescence, that they wouldn't give it a second thought. After all, I never do it with a frown! But they do, I guess the smile is all important.
There was a time when co-workers at my second job, all those years ago, used to call me Smiley. What was different about me then? I used to come to this job having worked a full day and after attending a class or two at the university. The work was drudgery of the worst sort, the work of a cashier in a furniture store. There were angry customers often enough. There were customers whose names I mispronounced - I remember not knowing which syllables to stress in the name "Buchanan" for instance - and Ms Buchanan was quite upset with this Asian immigrant butchering her name. But through it all I smiled as I walked through the store solving this problem or that.
Things are different now, I am not going to school or working two jobs, I have worked up to being a financial executive... and I rarely smile at work. Instead I send off sarcastic missives when to my mind someone is just not getting it. Forgetting that perhaps they aren't "getting it" to my satisfaction because I didn't attempt to explain it well, in laymen's terms, or rather non-financial terms.
So yes, a certain stoic grace needs to return to the perspective I have about work. And on this pleasant day in the city, I plan to start serving with a smile, an understanding and a heart full of compassion ;)
Onward!
Monday, January 14, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
She clambers over things
When we're just having a conversation about things, she clambers over the bed post while talking and punctuates her sentences with the last thump of a somersault. She paces when she is on the phone; in perpetual motion. I marvel at the energy.
I have been rather static and conservative with my ranges of motion. For the longest time (even now) my parents and other ridicule me for doing things with one hand. I never quite understood that bit of criticism, I wondered why they wanted to see me using two hands when one hand sufficed for the action...it wasn't as if I was dropping objects that I chose to only hold with one hand. But that's it, they still say things like, "फिर एक हाथ से..." (again using only one hand). Maybe the criticism is about something deeper than just my manner of doing the task at hand. Perhaps they are envious of my potential energy reserves ;)
One clear memory of animation is from my first trip to the US embassy in Delhi. I had gone to get my American passport. Had been sitting in the line, drinking Cherry Coke, something I hadn't had outside of the embassy and marveling at the cool American things that would soon be within reach. When the time came to go inside and pick up my US passport after pledging allegiance, I noticed a person at the counter, chatting with her friend. Perhaps she was describing an event from the night before or just something she had been doing, but she was talking with her body, her arms, her legs, she was in a very animated state. I watched her and wondered if all Americans were so energetic, so animated. I read something later on in a book going to America for the first time, it mentioned the bit about 3 feet of space between people and that this unstated space convention often caused discomfort in interpersonal interactions. I remember thinking to myself, no wonder they need all that space, they need room for the hand gestures and the swirls and twirls.
So from my sedate state I now witness my clambering, somersaulting daughter in perpetual motion and wonder if it is a cultural thing or is it a deeper reflection on our personalities.
I have been rather static and conservative with my ranges of motion. For the longest time (even now) my parents and other ridicule me for doing things with one hand. I never quite understood that bit of criticism, I wondered why they wanted to see me using two hands when one hand sufficed for the action...it wasn't as if I was dropping objects that I chose to only hold with one hand. But that's it, they still say things like, "फिर एक हाथ से..." (again using only one hand). Maybe the criticism is about something deeper than just my manner of doing the task at hand. Perhaps they are envious of my potential energy reserves ;)
One clear memory of animation is from my first trip to the US embassy in Delhi. I had gone to get my American passport. Had been sitting in the line, drinking Cherry Coke, something I hadn't had outside of the embassy and marveling at the cool American things that would soon be within reach. When the time came to go inside and pick up my US passport after pledging allegiance, I noticed a person at the counter, chatting with her friend. Perhaps she was describing an event from the night before or just something she had been doing, but she was talking with her body, her arms, her legs, she was in a very animated state. I watched her and wondered if all Americans were so energetic, so animated. I read something later on in a book going to America for the first time, it mentioned the bit about 3 feet of space between people and that this unstated space convention often caused discomfort in interpersonal interactions. I remember thinking to myself, no wonder they need all that space, they need room for the hand gestures and the swirls and twirls.
So from my sedate state I now witness my clambering, somersaulting daughter in perpetual motion and wonder if it is a cultural thing or is it a deeper reflection on our personalities.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
What's said about writing and writers
"This part of the book is funny, but not all of it is. The problem with “The Geography of Bliss” is one of tone. It comes across as an attempted amalgam of Paul Theroux’s bleak humor, P. J. O’Rourke’s caustic wit and David Sedaris’s appreciation of the absurd. There’s a kind of forced jocularity to Weiner’s writing, as if the author were trying to affect the appropriate persona for his subject. Rather than projecting a hoity NPR-ness (Weiner was one of its foreign correspondents for a decade), he cops an attitude of faux populism, taking potshots at the Ivy League, Nietzsche and other dead white males, all of which comes across as somewhat insincere."
The above is a quote from Pamela Paul's review of Eric Weiner's book "The Geography of Bliss" in The New York Times. I wonder about the things that are said about a writer or his writing. I feel certain that when Eric Weiner was writing his book he didn't say to himself that he was going to attempt bleak humor, caustic wit or an appreciation of the absurd a la Paul Theroux, P.J. O'Rourke or David Sedaris, respectively. He probably had moments of great lucidity and flow while writing his book where the sentences just emerged a certain way and like all good writers he probably re-read it several times until he felt satisfied with his words. His editor must have then had another go at his work.
Before Pamela Paul's review did anyone tell him that his writing appeared forced and insincere in parts? I also feel certain that if I picked up the book I wouldn't pause anywhere and say to myself, "My, my how like David Sedaris that sounds!" or "What a Paul Theroux like thought or expression...is this author trying to copy them?" I feel sure these thoughts would not cross my mind and I have read enough Paul Theroux and regularly laugh my head off at David Sedaris columns.
As usual I am left wondering about reviews and reviewers and my shortcomings as a reader of prose. I read for enjoyment. I start with back page or dust jacket synopses, I move on to the introduction, I let the first chapter sink its hooks deep and then I continue on, secure in my decision that the book I've picked up is a good one. If I find I can't get through it I let it drop. But reading a review like the one above leaves me baffled. It makes me wonder if despite the hours I spend reading and, to my mind, absorbing what I read, am I really letting anything sink in? Sink in to the extent that comparisons to other authors spring to mind and leave the author I am reading appear like a pale a much inferior imitation of more illustrious and celebrated literary personages?
When a sincere author (not someone like the Harvard U plagiarist - Kavya) is pouring his heart and soul into his work, confident he has a winner, reading, re-reading, editing I feel certain they are at their most sincere, their words are their own, the characters, plots, dialogues their own creation even if they are, to a certain extent, all that they have read, been inspired by. I am sure it never crosses their mind that a future reviewer might call the work forced or insincere, or trying to be like someone else. If the thought crossed their mind they would probably scrap the offending chapter and start over, don't you think? Or is this an ignorant and naive view?
I had once written about Joan Didion's book - The Year of Magical Thinking. I wouldn't call what I wrote a review. They were my impressions of the book and I must say the book made quite an impression on me. So I was once again surprised when a friend of mine read what I wrote and commented in a tone that sounded outraged at my praise of the author, suggesting that some other author was really the best when it came to writing about similar subjects. I forget the name of the author my friend mentioned and it isn't relevant to the point I want to make, which is, why is it so hard for people to take things at face value every once in awhile and to agree to disagree about things? So what if another author was an authority on the subject (death in this case) why would my friend resent my praise of another author who I felt tackled the subject with so much depth of feeling? Why is there always an attempt to convert others to ones own viewpoint, why resent those who support a different viewpoint or possess a different perspective? Questions one can't really answer I suppose.
The above is a quote from Pamela Paul's review of Eric Weiner's book "The Geography of Bliss" in The New York Times. I wonder about the things that are said about a writer or his writing. I feel certain that when Eric Weiner was writing his book he didn't say to himself that he was going to attempt bleak humor, caustic wit or an appreciation of the absurd a la Paul Theroux, P.J. O'Rourke or David Sedaris, respectively. He probably had moments of great lucidity and flow while writing his book where the sentences just emerged a certain way and like all good writers he probably re-read it several times until he felt satisfied with his words. His editor must have then had another go at his work.
Before Pamela Paul's review did anyone tell him that his writing appeared forced and insincere in parts? I also feel certain that if I picked up the book I wouldn't pause anywhere and say to myself, "My, my how like David Sedaris that sounds!" or "What a Paul Theroux like thought or expression...is this author trying to copy them?" I feel sure these thoughts would not cross my mind and I have read enough Paul Theroux and regularly laugh my head off at David Sedaris columns.
As usual I am left wondering about reviews and reviewers and my shortcomings as a reader of prose. I read for enjoyment. I start with back page or dust jacket synopses, I move on to the introduction, I let the first chapter sink its hooks deep and then I continue on, secure in my decision that the book I've picked up is a good one. If I find I can't get through it I let it drop. But reading a review like the one above leaves me baffled. It makes me wonder if despite the hours I spend reading and, to my mind, absorbing what I read, am I really letting anything sink in? Sink in to the extent that comparisons to other authors spring to mind and leave the author I am reading appear like a pale a much inferior imitation of more illustrious and celebrated literary personages?
When a sincere author (not someone like the Harvard U plagiarist - Kavya) is pouring his heart and soul into his work, confident he has a winner, reading, re-reading, editing I feel certain they are at their most sincere, their words are their own, the characters, plots, dialogues their own creation even if they are, to a certain extent, all that they have read, been inspired by. I am sure it never crosses their mind that a future reviewer might call the work forced or insincere, or trying to be like someone else. If the thought crossed their mind they would probably scrap the offending chapter and start over, don't you think? Or is this an ignorant and naive view?
I had once written about Joan Didion's book - The Year of Magical Thinking. I wouldn't call what I wrote a review. They were my impressions of the book and I must say the book made quite an impression on me. So I was once again surprised when a friend of mine read what I wrote and commented in a tone that sounded outraged at my praise of the author, suggesting that some other author was really the best when it came to writing about similar subjects. I forget the name of the author my friend mentioned and it isn't relevant to the point I want to make, which is, why is it so hard for people to take things at face value every once in awhile and to agree to disagree about things? So what if another author was an authority on the subject (death in this case) why would my friend resent my praise of another author who I felt tackled the subject with so much depth of feeling? Why is there always an attempt to convert others to ones own viewpoint, why resent those who support a different viewpoint or possess a different perspective? Questions one can't really answer I suppose.
New Year
The good news is that I might have transferred my Scrabble addiction to the hubby. He had never played Scrabble before and now he is at it night and day. He plays under an ID now which he calls his practice ID. Once he feels ready he's going to get himself an ID that's something like "Praginator" (riffing on "Terminator" if there is anyone out there wondering). Praginator wants to challenge and vanquish Prag. Well, let's see. We'll leave him to his preparations. Strangely enough, watching his absorption with this immensely addictive pastime, I have lost my own addiction.
And that frees up time.
There's much to be said for spiraling out of control, it's exhilarating, but maybe sometimes one needs to get centered again in order to plan the next outward spiral. Maybe 2008 needs to be the leap year where I get centered again, have been getting a little lost in the fog out there.
Resolutions...can't call these resolutions. Labeling them as such dooms them to failure. But what needs to happen for me this year is the following:
I need to learn to love what I do if I don't have what it takes to do what I love.
I need to pay another visit to the mental document yellowing with age somewhere that clearly states what is good and right and what isn't. I am pretty sure there are no gray areas in this long forgotten document, the way the imp of the perverse chooses to remember or interpret it.
People are important, cultivating relationships is important and I need to make time for involvement with the people in my life and with the tasks that define my life.
Involvement and yes full engagement, that's the key. You may wonder what I really mean by that but I am not about to elaborate...I just know that these are the things that could ensure a spring in my step every morning, rather than a dragging of my feet, groaning about everything.
That's it for the new year post.
And that frees up time.
There's much to be said for spiraling out of control, it's exhilarating, but maybe sometimes one needs to get centered again in order to plan the next outward spiral. Maybe 2008 needs to be the leap year where I get centered again, have been getting a little lost in the fog out there.
Resolutions...can't call these resolutions. Labeling them as such dooms them to failure. But what needs to happen for me this year is the following:
I need to learn to love what I do if I don't have what it takes to do what I love.
I need to pay another visit to the mental document yellowing with age somewhere that clearly states what is good and right and what isn't. I am pretty sure there are no gray areas in this long forgotten document, the way the imp of the perverse chooses to remember or interpret it.
People are important, cultivating relationships is important and I need to make time for involvement with the people in my life and with the tasks that define my life.
Involvement and yes full engagement, that's the key. You may wonder what I really mean by that but I am not about to elaborate...I just know that these are the things that could ensure a spring in my step every morning, rather than a dragging of my feet, groaning about everything.
That's it for the new year post.
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