Good reporters, lovers & earning your way

Do you know what a good reporter is?

I have said this before. I occasionally (often?) have been accused of being overly serious. And, I have said this before. So what? So, here we go with sort of a continuation of last night's conversation.

Do you know what a good reporter is?

A good reporter is a chameleon.

One day, he is able to walk into the office of a bank president, sit down, and within a matter of minutes make himself appear to be like he is the next-door-neighbor to the bank president, that he is the bank president's best friend and his personal confidant. The reporter wants information, details, so he must instill trust.

The next day, he is able to walk into the home of a drug dealer, sit down, and within a matter of minutes make himself appear to be like he is the next-door-neighbor to the drug dealer, that he is the drug dealer's best friend and his personal confidant. The reporter wants information, details, so he must instill trust.

You get the drift? It is not as easy as I tried to make it sound, but that sort of covers the basics.

I am a good reporter. My object with this piece of prose is not to have you distrust me. It is to stir you to think, to study and to learn about the world and people around you.

The important thing here is not what makes a good reporter, but is for you to learn how to tell the difference between someone who is potentially a good reporter and someone who has genuine affection for you and who wants to learn more about you and who wants to try to learn if there might be an "us" in the future.

I know some of you understand this and could have skipped reading what I have written here; I also know some of you do not understand, but I hope you will come to.

Are you still reading, or did you doze off?

Personally, I have been fooled once. Professionally, once, also, and I am speaking in terms of not recognizing when I was being lied to, but I crucified the liar when the lie was discovered because it was my job at the time and I always attempt to be fully professional at my work.

It is evident most of us hanging around here have been dumped, dropped or at least lied to along the way. It is the same for all of us, I think. A great line, a great face, a great bank account, any or all of those things and more might enter the picture, plus our own vulnerabilities at the time. Maybe, the old "rebound" complex.

Then, too, feelings change, do they not? Love can diminish as surely as it can grow when new truths are discovered or when old lies are uncovered or when betrayals occur.

Call it whatever you want, but I would prefer some people dislike me for what I do say rather than for what I do not say. Another one of Ernest Hemingway's thoughts was this: "Men and women cannot be friends without also becoming lovers." I know that to be incorrect because I have experienced it. I would imagine some of you have, as well. (If not, pick your friends better.)

Wherever this page leads, my foremost hope is that it will leave those of us who are "talking" a bit wiser (I know reading you has taught me) and with feelings of affection toward and concern about each other.

Anything beyond that will be a bonus.

Sometimes coincidence is beyond belief ....

One day I make these statements: "Most were high school teachers looking for credits to use to jump up their salaries. One or two were grad teaching assistants (probably career grad assistants). One among the group was the village idiot, me, who thought the class might be more beneficial to me than an evening bowling or sitting in a bar. It is entirely possible I was the only person there because I actually wanted to be there."

Barely a day later, this falls out of the sky: "As a former teacher who was required to take inane classes for earning a raise, I am sorry I missed your literature class. I surely would have disputed you boat interpretation favoring the notion of a allegorical stock market interpretation."

Required to take "inane classes for earning a raise"?

Never in my life have I encountered anyone, most particularly a retired, career school teacher such as "troutbirder," who would label a class in which the subject matter consists of novels, written by acknowledged masters of the form, to be an "inane" class. The particular novelist I referenced in my commentary, Lawrence Durrell, came within a whisker-width of winning the Nobel Prize for Literature.

There are good teachers and poor ones, with most probably somewhere between. I can understand providing teachers with monetary incentives to increase their knowledge base. What I have never been able to understand is why so many teachers seem to believe their own personal education ends the day the degree is slapped into their hands; why so many whine about being forced to take "inane classes for earning a raise."

The concept of teaching begins with the teacher learning through personal education and experience, not with an evening of bowling or sitting in a bar waiting for the school year to begin.

I repeat: "It is entirely possible I was the only person there because I actually wanted to be there." Very sad, but true. A few days ago, I wrote that ignorance is not bliss. Evidently, for some, it is.

More fun and games ....

The blogger named "troutbirder" seemed to think I am among the "pretentious, arrogant, pseudo-intellectual political Luddites."

Pretentious? No, I do not think so. How could "the" direct descendant of Fram the First, conqueror of the Mediterranean, ever be pretentious?

Arrogant? Oh, yes, guilty as charged. That began with high school sports and was greatly encouraged by the Marine Corps. (I think their motto should have been, "Second to None," since that is the cornerstone of their training.) I often have a hard time distinguishing the line between self-confidence and arrogance. At least, I recognize arrogance as a flaw within me, and generally try to keep a lid on it.

Pseudo-intellectual political Luddites? I am not certain how that might be associated with literature, teaching, liberals or conservatives in this context, and really do not care. I suppose that is because I am only a "pseudo." Whoops, here comes old arrogance creeping up on me again, so I will finish with it.

I do have a bachelor of arts degree with a double major in English and history, which I completed in three years instead of the usual four. Had I wanted to attend another summer session, my credits were so abundant that I could have had a bachelor of science degree thrown in, as well. I also do have a master of arts in literature, which I completed by taking classes here and there over a few years, and being a full-time student for the final semester.

I do not consider these degrees to be as important as the fact that I did it all on my own time with my own money, and with neither expectation nor promise of a salary raise. I did it for me as an attempt to become a better, more well-rounded person. Whether or not I am, so what? So, learning is fun.

Music Note: Still listening to classic rock on the radio ....
Getting my money's worth from this machine ....
Playing this instant: "Photograph" by Def Leppard ....

Riding sea swells in Alexandria & more things

"Mountolive" is the third book of "The Alexandria Quartet"

Literature turns me into a Republican ....

Maybe more of this story will come back to me as I write it, but probably not. So what?

A few years ago, I was taking a graduate level course in literature. I cannot recall the name of the course, but it concerned novels and was British and European in nature. It was an evening class, in the summer, and there were about 25 students in attendance. Most were high school teachers looking for credits to use to jump up their salaries. One or two were grad teaching assistants (probably career grad assistants). One among the group was the village idiot, me, who thought the class might be more beneficial to me than an evening bowling or sitting in a bar. It is entirely possible I was the only person there because I actually wanted to be there. (Well, I never claimed to be perfect.)

One of the books we were reading was, "Mountolive," written by Lawrence Durrell. I mentioned him back when I listed my choices for the 100 best novels ever written. That seems so long ago, but I have not been writing on the blog even for two months yet so, I guess, it really was not that long ago.

Durrell, who may or may not have been an actual British citizen, was born in India and died in France. His works include, "The Alexandria Quartet," of which "Mountolive" was third in the series. Briefly, it tells the story of David Mountolive, a junior member of the British legation to Egypt, his love affairs, his work, his observations, his recollections.

I still have the book. I looked for it so I might refresh my memory, but could not find it. I do not have enough room for all my hardback books on my shelves, much less any paperbacks. Most of my books live in boxes where, although absent from me, are in the company of many other fine books and know that I do love them, still.

Back to topic. Our instructor, an elderly man whose body language indicated boredom and resignation, often read a few pages from the novel we were engaged with at the moment. Then, like good instructors everywhere, he asked we, his students, for interpretations. Again, without the ability to re-read the pages, I cannot recall the details precisely, but one evening he read about a boat -- maybe a punt, maybe a gondola, certainly not a canoe -- riding the waves on a lake or a river or whatever at sunset or sunrise or at 3:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time or whatever.

One of the high school teachers seeking a raise (pay, that is) volunteered that it was a perfect description of the sights and sounds one would experience if riding in or watching a boat moving across open water under a beautiful sky. I seem to recall another volunteering a similar opinion, differing mostly in the exact shade of color of the sky. Then, he who has an opinion about everything raised his hand. "I think Durrell is making a very detailed allusion to a man and a woman making love," said he. (Note the absence of crude language in his commentary.) He, who sat next to one of the career grad assistants, felt heads turn to look his way. (Some of the more subtle in the group only turning eye balls.)

He, who sees strange things when upon the water, went on to describe how he thought Durrell's description of a boat (whatever kind it was) rising and falling upon the water, with the movement of the currents and the spray of the water, etc., etc., etc., to be an allegorical description of love-making. (I really wish I could dig the book out of the pile to do justice to this commentary.)

After a few minutes of hemming and hawing and commenting about what an interesting interpretation "he," meaning me, had arrived at, we had an early dismissal, and each of us adjourned to our favorite establishments of liquid refreshment. No matter if my interpretation had any validity or not, it still fascinates me that the depth of some readers' perception goes no deeper than debating the shade of color an author has just described, especially when dealing with writers such as Durrell, who himself had said the quartet was his continuing investigation of modern love.

It was then, for the first time among the many conversions in my life, that I registered as a Republican, hoping that they, at least, knew the difference between a love scene and watching a boat bobbing in the water. Whether or not this conversion was a success is a story for another day. Canoes are magical things, are they not?

More things about more things ....

I almost bought a 40-foot sailboat to live on when I sold Sanctuary/Refuge, but decided, no, it would be far too premature. Besides, I had too many books and guns to fit within her -- and, if she went down with my guns and books, I think I would go with her, too.

Early on, by design, I turned into a newspaper jack-of-all-trades. I can do it all, none of it especially well, but run any desk or handle any job or write satisfactorily enough to cover any story in the joint. The words generally used to describe me are "sort of indispensable." Hard to beat that, unless the newspaper itself actually folds, and which is why it never has been difficult for me to find work.

It is a strange feeling, trying to decide which t-shirt fits a given occasion, when you open a drawer and see one from the Sierra Club and another from the Audubon Society, and next to them is another that reads: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, because I am the meanest SOB in the valley." It is an even stranger feeling to know they all accurately represent a part of you or, at least, a part of you that you have been and could be again, should circumstances call for it in protection of loved ones or castle or any innocent's life. Who says the male of the species is not a complex creature?

Music Note: Listening to Lee Ann Womack ....
Specifically, "I Hope You Dance" ....
Some lines from: "I Hope You Dance:"

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat
But always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted

God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance