St David's Day (2019)

And so it was that on the first day of March in 1886, a tall, thin, dyspeptic Anglo-Indian gentleman, late out of the wilderness of Pennsylvania, founded a beacon of truth and light in an island of the Main. There may it stand, from year to year, an emblem of grand endeavour.

That same gentleman was heard to say decades later that one main lesson of his life was that women did more of the work, and that one Blackmore did the most of all, in 1887. To her, he said, a statue should be raised if any should be raised at all.

These thoughts come to mind on St David's Day this year. For he too agreed that we should say who did the work, and all should do it well.

The Work-Life Balance Hoax

Most people don't realise that work is a legitimate and valid subset of life. Hence you cannot balance the two. What you need to do is balance work against non-work elements in life. If you try to balance life against work, it will fail.

How do we know?

Try doing this. Stand next to a wall that is at least as high as you are tall, so that you are upright and looking in a direction parallel to the wall. This will place one of your shoulders, and the outer edge of the foot on the same side, against the wall.

Now try to lift your other foot without falling away from the wall.

Simple physics and many other forms of reasoning will show that you cannot balance the subset against the superset — except in one case.

That case is when both sets are identical, which in this case would mean that either your entire life is work, or your entire work is life. This gives perfect balance.

Otherwise, accept that work is part of your life, and that you will die without it. But do other things with your life, so that you don't die OF work.

And remember: there is no such thing as 'work-life balance'.

The Morning After

I am no different from what I was. But what I fear is that I will be viewed differently in ways that are unhelpful to some.

I remember my first encounter with Deleuze, and the idea of everything being uniquely and differently on the same level. I also remember the bad pun his contemporary made, about how the 20th century might turn out to be nothing but Deleuzian.

The fragments of my work churn in and out of my head, helped by the remnants of the pasta and Cabernet Sauvignon. It has been a long, strange journey. Along the road, I have been helped by unicorns and gryphonesses, by titans and cyclopes, by a flight of wyverns and a parliament of rooks.

But this is the morning after, and I am about to close the chapter for a while.

Pre-Storm

Today I woke up and went off to the old homestead to do some gardening. It was a quiet morning, and even the mosquitoes were doped, lazy, static. The flowers did perk up a bit when I watered them, but everything else wasn't up to much. Or mulch.

I got home and did some busy-work. Tinkered at the margins, mapped out stuff that would make my audience less bored tomorrow. Reframed my ideas, read through my writing, played with the weak ashy bits of my discontent.

I had two three four coffees. One had some chocolate in it. Another one had two kinds of ground mixed in. I had work to do, and yet there was nothing to be done.

Tonight, I am off to a dinner that is not of my own choosing, nor my own desiring. But tomorrow will be a better day. Or at least, there will be snakes to fight and crocodiles to wrestle in the mudpit of academia.

Sentenced to Death

I have been sentenced to death. I have read a total of more than sixty essays most of which pretend to be essays on the theory of knowledge but are nothing of the sort. Most of them are collections of sentences, working their dreary way to release after a long term.

Helping the inmates demonstrate their fitness to be released is mind-boggling. Many of them can't write five lines without contradicting themselves or using words that have to be defined because they are not good enough. The latter problem adds to the bulk of the stool that is being dropped.

And so it goes. They're not always bad. Sometimes you find diamonds aching to be polished. Sometimes you find craftsmanship and even style. But mostly you take patience and add endurance, and work your way through the accidental labyrinths, past the bull-headed beast-men and the tangled webs, until your crimes are expiated and your sins are cleansed.

Work Is What It Is

I love work, but not as others do. I am not enamoured or enthralled, but I am occasionally excited by the prospect of doing things with my hands, my mind.

And for some reason, people know when I have too much time on my hands (or will soon have much of this valued commodity which one really can't have too much of) and offer more work to me. I am greatly appreciative.

I'm not a lazy person, but I do believe in slacking. Else the fabric warps.

Milestone

The 250 pages grew to nigh on 300. The valiant three hundred should ensure I hold the pass. At least until the long-delayed oral examination, and hopefully beyond. I am so very tired. But my room is tidy now, and soon, it will be much emptier with the ghost of globalisation off to haunt someone else.

Longan

A few years ago when The Niece (I only had one at that time) was musing on the subject of fruit, she said, "If there are long uns, there should be short uns as well."

Well, some of my last few days seem to have merged into one long day, or as one person described it, periods of boredom punctuated by moments of intense horror. Tuesday has been the day I thought I had everything under control. At times, I thought perhaps it controlled me.

I am longin' for surcease. And a short'nin' of days, too.

Lunchtime

In the rushing of the noonday hour
A fly descends
In hot oil and busy elegance
A meal is served

Hear one moment of silence
Between wingbeat and heartbeat

The sacrament of food
Consumes the moment
Lays it out to later
Autopsy of words

The smoke pours out
The heat returns
The daylight's messy business
Heads to evening's dusty doom

Work

The work pours in. I am too busy, and it feels good. Today I had coffee with Gnomus. He is in a good place too. Life is bright. Work makes it so.

Three Hours

Yesterday, I had a three-hour discussion. I have about 25 days to do everything. It will take more than three hours. I have maps to draw, to lead people through the labyrinth I have devised. Yet, I feel I need a labris in order to negotiate that labyrinth. And probably, at the end of it all, my labris will become a libris of its own. Ho ho. Insanity beckons. I find myself at the Royal Bethlehem Hotel in a state of some confusion.

Almost

Is it all there, or mostly there? I am almost there.

Sigh. I have one and a half more chapters to finish compiling and editing. In about 3 days or so. Arrgh.

Tendons

What connects the muscles of the economy to the bones of labour? It must be the tendons provided by financial structures.

But all this seems terribly mechanical. Locomotion and work.

Where is the brain in all of this? And in the brain, is there a mind?

Preparing for Re-Entry

I suppose that when I look back on the events of the last few months, I shall think most of those who fought with me and "saved the sum of things for pay." In a sense, Atlantis has become one of those states that the founding fathers would not have wanted; they followed old Nick, and his advice was that a Prince should never depend on mercenaries. But here we are, as they say.

Yet, I'm not a foreign mercenary, but a local man fighting for the integrity of a local institution. For pay. It does cause some unease that I am being paid extra to do what I once would have done for free. A man's got to make a living, but sometimes, one wishes that one had the faith to let God make the living while the man gets on with the mission.

So... preparing for re-entry. Odd ways. Clearing the decks, confessing the failings, digging out the old corpses, bringing out the dead. I have realised that somewhere deep in my heart, I thought I had retired to the afterlife of ease that I never wanted. But today, I am back in the field.

And as always, I bow to the four corners of the Earth, and the regents thereof. I give thanks to God, their master and mine. I express gratitude to my wingmen. And I perform the dutiful obeisance, heartfelt and true, to my ancestors who have taught me so much. Lastly, my love and fond appreciation go out to the Lady who sits in my tree.

Thus, prepared for re-entry, I rest on Him, and in His name I go.

Re-Entry (Part I)

It was strange to be driving in to school. I drove up to the security post; the guard checked the vehicle registration plate, smiled, and waved me through. I made the necessary 270° turn in the middle of the fortress and found a parking lot.

School offices. Spiral staircases. Coffee and busy people.

It has been a long time since I've seen the usual cluttered mass of desks and partitions that is the modern office. The layout at the Institute tends to be less dense, and hence the clutter is spread out and neutralised.

But there always is clutter in the modern office. The paperless incarnation of human toil never quite took off. Humans need material things, for they are not virtual.

Oddly, I saw few students. I felt almost as if I were in a convent, with the young ladies hiding behind the stone walls and whitewash.

I note, in some semi-detached corner of my mind, that this staircase is not of military bent. It winds to the left and up, which favours the attacker and obstructs the defender. Castles have them the other way around, unless the defenders are left-handed, which is quite rare.

One thing I like about the place is its sense of open plazas. I'm sure that at the end of the day, the throng of students must cover the ground like pigeons at another open square far, far away. But the open lines of sight appeal to me, though I am not a claustrophobe.

I have civilised conversations about education. This is a novelty to me, almost. I have not had such conversations in school offices very often. Mostly they end with metaphorical hand-wringing about my inability to do the politically correct but ethically wrong thing.

It worries me that I am becoming domesticated. I shall try to retain a bit of the wilderness in my soul.

Altruism and Endeavour

I used to be a public servant. At that time, I calculated that I earned something like $1 per client per hour. Fortunately, clients came in groups of 30 or so. Even so, I received what I thought was a useful wage but one far from a professional one.

Time passed. I became a private operative. In terms of professional development, I got better (which you can interpret how you will).

I can now bill more than a hundred times the per client per hour rate. I have fewer clients but even so, I still am earning a few hundred percent more than I used to, on an hourly basis. And I can make use of my time more effectively in terms of my other life-goals and work-in-life balance.

But what to do when the public sector wants me to help out? For lawyers, there is often a pro bono element of public service; surprisingly, doctors have this too. But my own murky profession is one which every adult human being seems to think they can do — some think of it as a general human function that needs no specialist training. They are aghast when I present my bill, and they point out that some members of other professions don't charge so much.

I was heartened to see a healthy debate in the local press recently, concerning a surgeon who purportedly or allegedly charged way above the going rate for a wide range of highly specialised services. From my somewhat cloistered experience, I cannot imagine charging anyone so much, or that such charges can be justified. Of course, I could be wrong.

Over the last few years, I have come to realise that I too provide highly specialised services. Actually, I estimate that there must be about not more than 20 people in this state who can provide such services; not all of them are available or as easy to find. In fact, I suspect that the number is considerably smaller in practice.

As the Good Book says, "The workman is worthy of his hire," and, "Do not muzzle the ox when he is treading out the grain." I have therefore come to a position that includes an element of means testing: if my clients can pay without ceasing, I will accept that situation and charge a rate which is of benefit to me as well as to them, but is not artificially depressed; if my clients cannot afford this kind of standard rate, I will be altruistic and try to accommodate their situation by artificially depressing my costs and resulting fees as far as I can.

A truly grand endeavour is based on hard work and intense effort without token of reward apart from the pleasure of a job well done. However, a living must still be made, because it creates a sense of contract and collaboration in the professional community. This is why communities have traditionally always 'settled a living' upon the religious in their midst.

And that is why, absent a similar modern sensibility, I have to carve my pound of flesh (and blood) from the body politic. I don't do public service pro bono because (unlike many lawyers) I can't afford to upgrade my professional knowhow and maintain my current comfortable-but-not-luxurious lifestyle if I were to do that. But I do make a concession for those who labour in similar fields, because that too breeds amity and mutual respect.

Not Doing

It's one of those days when you look at your desk and the piles of books and papers and you tell yourself no I'm not doing anymore work. And it's worse than that, it's one of those days when you don't want to do any work but you aren't happy with yourself for it. And it's worse than that, you left the airconditioning on all night and you ache all over and who can you blame for that?

Coffee. Cures all ills.

Back to Work

Obviously, a fair number of people had to take a break from whatever they were doing to say their goodbyes to the Gnome. The thing is that part of my work was writing a commemorative tribute to his life in public service.

This means, of course, that I have to cope with the aftermath of loss at closer quarters than most. But I can imagine what he would have to say about that, because he said so much about so many things...

=====

The Strategos of the Atlantean military said, "He frightened a lot of people, he was a very demanding boss, but really if you knew him well, he was a very kind man, a very caring man and he actually had the welfare of the soldiers at heart... the Thunderer would never have made a good Gnome, and the Gnome would never have made a good Thunderer."

These two very different men were distantly related. But I will always remember the story that the Strategos once told. Apparently, the Gnome, in his capacity as High Priest of War, once summoned him. A summons from the Gnome was always a fearsome thing. Quaking, our hero ascended to the Spartan (heh) office in which his boss held sway.

"Yes, lord, what may I do for you?"

"General, I want you to tell me something. If you know the answer, feel free to elaborate. Otherwise find me someone else."

"Yes, lord." It was at this point that our hero claims he felt true fear. The Gnome was never known to ask simple questions.

"What, general, is the reason that these white balls that we hit around are made with all these little dimples on them?"

The Strategos explained that it was something to do with helping them fly straight. As our hero said later, "I was pretty sure I was right, but I felt a twinge of uncertainty as he looked quizzically at me."

The Gnome then told him that it sounded like a reasonable explanation and thanked him. Another memorable moment in the history of Atlantis had occurred.

There is a sequel to this. It is said that the Gnome decided that all his general staff needed to be smarter. That is how the Strategos ended up going to Duke University to do a Master's degree in Military History.

My father was one of those tasked to prepare these military men for their higher education. It was an interesting task, teaching highly-motivated but somewhat senior officers about subversion and warfare. (He recalls that the Strategos had been bright but playful when he was a young man in the College of Wyverns. In fact, he used to copy my mother's notes; always a man of action, he didn't think he was academically bright enough, which was why he'd joined the army.)

But the Gnome would not be denied. And that is why all the senior officers of the various services now have to have Master's degrees in some relevant subject. And then, they go back to work. Just like I am doing now.

=====

I think the Gnome would have said to me, "Well, we're all human, so we do these things. But after getting such things done, quickly and with little fuss and minimal expense, let's remember that there is real work to do."

Working Days

My days are very different now. I used to wake up with the sun, struggling up from the depths of the dark and into the half-light. Forced to interact, one took what pleasure one could. There was a lot of enjoyment in what I did, but it had little to do with the 10,000 steps (measured by pedometer) I walked each day, up and down the winding and baroque geometry of the old place; nor had it much to do with the random 12 hours of work, a lot of it mindless, that had to be done in every day. Badly planned, or not at all, seemed to be the order of those days.

But now, it is a lot more contingent on what I think. I have to structure my days. Generally, an early start, but not too early. A quick catching up with nutrients and the world's events. A couple of hours of work on my own projects. Lunch and time with people, or more work on my own. Then the students, miniature case-studies of cognition and despair. Dinner. Reading, perhaps a little work, rest. Relaxation.

I have a better awareness of who I am, and not how I am defined by the collective. I contain multitudes, as Whitman said. And yet, I am me.

An Hourly Wage

Some time ago, I joined the ranks of the hourly-rated workers, one of the many elderly who while away their time in minor episodes between bouts of extreme excitement and terror. The life of an hourly-rated worker is a difficult one; you only earn wages for each hour of work completed.

This means that you don't draw a salary for doing nothing. A long time ago, I observed that if I were ill, sub-par, or otherwise temporarily incapacitated, I would continue to draw a salary which I did not deserve. This was a perk of the inefficiency of the workplace. Some people I knew, despite being hopelessly incompetent, nevertheless continued to draw a healthy draught of cash from the circulatory system of the world.

Nowadays, a sore throat or a strained back, and my earnings are somewhat curtailed. This gives me a huge incentive to stay healthy. It also inspires me to look for other projects and assignments — tasks to which I can turn my resources (which a few nice people tell me are sometimes formidable, sometimes even intimidating) and my interests, with some advantage.

Despite such difficulties, I am happy. At least I now know I am earning a fair wage and not being a parasite on the body of the masses, unlike some people. At the same time, I feel for those of my former colleagues and peers who, despite working hard and well, do not receive the emoluments nor recognition for a job well done.

Ah well. I am off to earn some wages now.