In This Edition:
1. Back to School in September
2. Learning to Live in Moderation
3. The Information and Media Machine
4. An Observation from Leap Day, 2004
Back to School in September
With the 2004 Olympics and all its headline-grabbing attention now behind
us, Autumn is getting ready for its return. Even if you graduated from
college 10, 20, or 30 years ago, there's something about September that
seems to prompt the desire to learn. Sometimes that learning is not so much
academic as it is perceptual. For me learning to live in moderation, if
only for a seemingly small measure, is proving to be highly rewarding.
Learning to Live in Moderation
I have always loved pistachio nuts, especially those imported from
Turkey. When Southern Seasons, a large gourmet foods retailer, was holding
its annual inventory clearance sale, I noticed that Zenobia pistachios were
on sale, only $16.75 for a two and a half pound bag. A two and a half pound
bag! E gads, I hardly buy more than a pound at the Whole Foods supermarket
nearby, and even then it takes several days to go through them all. And
those are California pistachios, which are okay, but nothing like the
Turkish.
So, here I am face to face with a two and a half pound bag of the finest
pistachios in the world. If I bring them home, I know I am going to eat them
in a rapid manner and they are 80% to 85% fat. Still, there's no resisting,
so I walk to the check out counter, buy the bag, and make my way home. Over
the next three days, at the worst time of the day to be eating pistachio
nuts -- from about nine to eleven in the evening, I down the entire bag. My
stomach shows it over the next couple of days. Now I'm thinking, Okay I'm
going to have to abstain; I love those nuts, but how can I bring them into
my house? Once I start, there's no resisting.
Days go by. The sale is still on. It ends on July 11. I'm in Southern
Seasons again and walk past the Zenobia pistachio display. The two and a
half pound bags are there staring me in the face. I buy another one. I take
it home. This time, I tell myself that there will be no eating after 9 p.m.
I bag a few each morning and bring them to work and allow myself to munch on
the nuts during the day at work. At home that night, zero nuts. It takes me
several weeks to consume the two and a half pound bag. I am glad I bought
the bag, I am glad I ate the nuts, and I am proud of myself for taking that
long to go through it. Then, a brainstorm emerges!
The next time I'm in Southern Seasons, I make my way straight to the
pistachio shelf. There, there is an abundance of those beautiful two and a
half pound bags. I buy five of them! I bring them home. I put four in the
freezer. I open one bag, take out a small amount, and put it in a plastic
bag for work the next day.
My system works. I am only eating a small bag-full a day, during the day.
Because I have a huge supply of pistachio nuts at home, I no longer feel as
if it's some kind of rare commodity which I have to gobble down while the
going is good. Like a squirrel, I know I'll have enough nuts to last me for
months on end. At least in the context of eating pistachio nuts, I have
learned moderation. What a triumph! Where else can I apply this lesson?
The Information and Media Machine
Speaking of moderation... Suppose for the next year that no new books --
not even from me -- were written in America? Suppose that no new movies were
released or plays were produced? Aside from the fraction of the population
who derive their income from such information and entertainment vehicles,
would anyone else even notice? Are there not already enough books in a
typical bookstore, in the libraries, in people's homes to hold us for at
least a year? Would anyone run out of movie options based on the current
holdings of his or her local video store?
A moratorium on such products is never likely to happen. In the USA, we
generate books, movies, plays, video games, interactive websites, and all
manners of engaging media around the clock every day, fifty-two weeks a
year.
The only break in the action that anyone is likely to experience is when
there's a power failure. Then, for only a few hours at best, all is silent.
All is dark except for the candles and flashlights one has handy. This is a
magical time where, if you are lucky, you actually get to contemplate your
existence. You have to grope around, go rustic, figure out how to make do
for the evening. All those devices that require electricity so that you can
make your life easier or amuse yourself are suddenly inoperable. You may
actually have to light a fire, read by candle or flashlight, or, and this is
the real sacrifice, go to bed early in a less than toasty bedroom.
An Observation from Leap Day, 2004
On the sidewalk along busy Franklin Street in Chapel Hill, heading north
towards the Wellspring Grocery Store, I see a blind man gently pulled along
by a seeing eye dog as they cross a busy intersection. Nothing so unusual
about that except that the blind man is talking on a cell phone. Now I've
seen it all!
