Book Review: How To Grow Grain On The Homestead

 (Author's Note:  I have been sufficiently please with the outcome of my series of Essentialism and the kind comments of you, my readers, on that particular idea of a deep dive into a particular book, that I am planning to do it again.  I have a couple of books I am thinking of; I ask for your patience as I work through the next steps.)

The first year I grew grain was in 2005.

It was, as I recall, a combination of Winter Wheat, Emmer Wheat, Jet Barley, and Oats.  The Oats did not take.  Everything else did, and my interest in grain growing was born.  I believe that every year since then, I have at least tried to grow some kind of grain, no matter what my success rate.

Imagine my pleasure to find, in Permies crowdfund benefit package, a new book on growing grain:

Beyond sharing her experiences along with her husband Dan on their blog Five Acres & A Dream, Leigh is an FOTB (Friend Of This Blog) whose comments are regular and always thoughtful.  

As a result, this is probably not going to be a completely neutral review.

This book is a part of a smaller set of volumes which Leigh has written for specific items of the homestead (her book on Ginger, for example, is excellent as well).  I would also be remiss in mentioning that she also has "regular" books (Five Acres & A Dream - The Book and The Sequel).

I will start with the punch line first:  if you are looking for a book to ease you into what I consider the high satisfying world of growing grain, this is a great place to start.

The book covers all the basic questions, supplemented by examples from Leigh and Dan's experience:

- Why you should grow grain
- The basic steps of growing grain:  planting, harvesting, threshing, winnowing. The threshing part is especially interesting, as Leigh shares the six methods they have tried over the years to thresh grain, some of them pretty innovative.

- Grains themselves:  Leigh gives a review of 11 kinds of grains and pseudograins, including planting suggestions, usages, and harvesting/processing suggestions.

At 45 pages and a price tag of $3.99, it is a very reasonable "gateway book" into the wonderful world of grain growing.

Leigh's works are described at Kikobian.  Her longer books are available at all the usual online places.  Her e-publications (including the one listed above) are available via Smashwords.com; her author page is here.  

If you are looking for a "how to start" book that will stay with you as you increase your planting (because of course you will), this book is the best deal anyone could have to an introduction on grain growing.

The Collapse CCIV: Habeas Corpus

 12 December 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

We had two surprises today.

The first – both a surprise as a blessing – is that Young Xerxes showed up at our house this morning. In snowshoes – garnered from the pairs that Pompeia Paulina had at her house. He brought a day that was both sunny and snowfall free with him, along with a second pair for me.

The second surprise – less welcome – was the news he brought. There was a body in the snow. A body no-one recognized.

Walking in snowshoes is a trick I had largely lost the talent for; at one time, Winter hikes were an occasional thing and having snowshoes was far superior to tramping through snow (to gain wet shoes) with the risk of postholing (sinking up to your knee or thigh) a risk. The picking up of my feet was not so bad after I got going; the fact I continue to look like a duck undoubtedly made for high comedy.

By the time I made it to the Post Office, there was a crowd of about a dozen or so – including, somewhat to my surprise, some of our erstwhile neighbors – gathered around an object leaned up against the building. Folks kindly cleared as I waddled my way forward.

Sure enough, it was a body.

It was a man – a very thin looking man, if the gauntness of his face was any indicator. His was curled up into a ball, lightly dusted with snow. He had what I would have considered “Summer gear” in these parts: jeans (cotton, become wet and damp easily), a long sleeve shirt with perhaps a layer or two beneath poking out, tennis shoes, and a beanie, and for some reason a beautiful gray cashmere scarf. No jacket, no gloves.

His extremities – fingers, nose, ears – were black with frostbite. His eyes – pale blue – were staring off into a distance that he could no longer see.

Someone pointed out that down the main road into town from the West, there were half covered footprints leading in. He had come then, sometime in the night before the snow had completely fallen, taking refuge against the post office (it is a large enough building in these parts and would have been fairly discernible – and died.

I scanned the crowd with raised eyebrows. People shook their heads all around: no-one recognized him.

There were two concerns in my mind at the moment. The first was any sort of transmissible disease that he might be carrying with him. The second was equally as pragmatic: with a huge dump of new snow, what were we going to do with the body?

I spoke sotto voce to Young Xerxes and off he went like a shot (well, really a snow-shoed shot) as the rest of us stood around. To keep people busy, I sent some of the younger folk down the road where his prints had come from to see how far they went. The rest of us waited, low mutterings around the circle punctuated by frosty clouds of breath.

Young Xerxes returned, bearing what I had asked for: Latex gloves. No sense in taking any risks. I put some on as he did and then, we pulled the body forward.

Only once have a touched a body in rigor mortis; it was as if I was moving a relatively solid piece of wood, not a body. The same was true here, with the caveat that in point of fact this was frozen wood. The sensation, even through the gloves, was not pleasant.

Keeping as much distance as we could manage, we “flipped” him over on the other side, like a fish in a pan that we were frying. This side was much colder and snow bound, of course. But nothing else was revealed.

His face and hands (from what I could see) bore no signs of obvious outbreak of sores or other skin outbreaks. I say “From what I could see”; I had no intention on bending closer to an unknown death.

Gingerly we felt around his pants and coat pockets. In one front pocket we found a Swiss Army knife stripped of its outer plastic siding, the metal parts exposed. There was a cell phone – probably dead now – with one of those wallet casing attachments on the back with some cards that I could not make out. Other than that, nothing: no rings, no jewelry, no weapons, no food.

An enigma.

Those I had sent off down the road came back; they said the trail had run straight down what was the old state highway from the West. Not a surprise, really – it was flat and one could relatively tell if one had gone off it.

Which, of course, left the body.

Three feet plus of snow and frozen ground does not lend itself a burial and just leaving a body around here might attract predators now looking for a meal or other sorts of predators later. It needed to move. I looked again to my energetic young friends: There was an oak about a half mile down the road; could they get the body there and place it? A discussion, 15 minutes later and a sled, and they were ready. Young Xerxes and I lifted the body up, instructed them to shovel a hole in the snow, and dump it in without touching it.

The crowd began to disperse, and even our Erstwhile former neighbors gave me a nod as they left. Young Xerxes and I waited until the burial party returned. It was easily 30 minutes; standing on the snow in snowshoes instead of in it mad for a better experience and after a week more or less inside, it was good to just stand outside.

Our young friends returned, reporting a successful mission. I suggested to Young Xerxes that we might go up there in a few days; given the nature of the Winter and animals about, I was of half a mind that the body would no longer be there.

I do not like mysteries, Lucilius. Especially the dead without explanation.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Marina Bay (II)

 A poem written about the Merlion:

A smaller version:

Another view of the Anderson bridge:

Just a chicken out for a day at the opera....

They had some amazing trees:

The Lim Bo Seng Memorial, dedicated to the memory of Lim Bo Seng (A.D. 1909-1944), a guerilla fighter against the Japanese following the fall of Singapore to the Japanese Imperial Army in A.D. 1942.  Imprisoned in A.D. 1942 and tortured, he died in captivity without revealing any information:

The memorial. It includes an octagonal tower and four guardian lions from Chinese architecture. There inscriptions in English, Chinese, Malay, and Tamil:

The front of the Concert Hall with a statue of Stamford Raffles, considered in some aspects the founder of modern Singapore.

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Marina Bay (I)

 The second stop on our (arguably) whirlwind tour of Singapore was Marina Bay, which is one of Urban districts of Singapore.  This particular area borders on new development (as a redevelopment zone) as well as historical buildings as well.

Part of downtown Singapore.  Remove the tropical setting, and it could be downtown anywhere:

The Victoria Theater and Concert Hall.  Originally started in A.D. 1862, it was initially completed in A.D. 1909 and renovated from A.D. 2010-2014:

The Anderson Bridge, built A.D. 1908-1910.  Crossing the Singapore River, it is part of the F1 circuit when the race is run in Singapore:

The Merlion is a symbol of Singapore.  Although mythical sea creatures have been part of Malay, Chinese, and European history, there is no specific relation from any of those to this.  It was originally designed in the A.D. 1960's for the tourism board.  The merlion combines the fish, which symbolized Singapore's origins as a fishing village called Temasek, or "sea town", and the head of a lion, symbolizing Singapore's original name of Singapura, or "lion city".  Interesting, the original was struck by lightning in A.D. 2009:

A view of The Marina Bay Sands, the world's most expensive casino valued at $6.9 billion.  If you think that it looks like a ship built on top of the towers you would be right:

Another view of downtown:

An example of a water taxi:

Pray, And Let God Worry

 

One of the underappreciated authors of our time in my mind is Francis Schaeffer.  An apologist of the mid to late 1960's to his death in the 1980's, he clearly saw - as did C.S. Lewis and G.K. Chesterton - the outcome of thought processes and policies of modernism from its beginnings in the Late Middle Ages to the modern world.  Schaeffer wrote such books as How Now Shall We Live?, A Christian Manifesto, and The Coming Evangelical Disaster.  Always in his works, Schaeffer worked through not only how we had arrived at current modernism believe, but what the call of a Christian is in the modern world.  

Calling, as it turns out, has been much on my mind - as usual, brought into being by a series of events that arguably could only have been orchestrated by God:  re-reading The Call by Os Guinness, re-reading the first book of the works of the Stoic Epictetus, a realization that in some ways (such as The Ranch) I had built up in my mind an idol of how I was going to live rather than asking God "How do you want me to live?"

All of this, of course, layered onto the events of last week.

It is obvious - at least to me - that I am called to do something.  The question is, what?

I am not a man of violence, and I will - to the best of my knowing ability - not call for violence.  Part of that is from a deep conviction that while there may be isolated incidents (think personal self defense or countries at war) that violence "solves" the issue, the fact is that it just as often does not - and the outcomes of even those incidents leave scars that take years or decades to heal.  The other part of the conviction comes from the fact that there are two great masses of people whom are not (I assume) those that would generally take my side in many issues: those that are "true believers" and for whom there can never be compromise, and those who may disagree, but may be willing to be convinced.

The first group is likely beyond my ability to communicate to or with.  The second, though, may be.  

But you have to talk to them.

As a Christian, my model is - and has to be - Jesus Christ.  And what did He do?  He talked to people. He taught people.  He did works - miracles (which I cannot replicate) and forms of charitable actions (which I can replicate) to demonstrate that He did not just say His beliefs, He meant them.  That did not mean people always liked what He said - good heavens, they killed Him for His words - but that they did hear them. 

So then, to Schaeffer's question, How now shall I live?

I am not a man given to apologetics; public speaking makes me nauseous still and I am not a skilled debater.  But I can write.  And I can usual InstaPic to post Christian messages from the classics.  And I can practice humility to make me more Christlike and kindness and charity to align my life with my words.

But (I can already hear the question), What about impact?  What about actually "turning the tide"?

There is a concept in martial arts that goes "Do not speak of that which you do not know".  This is a concept that applies to everyone at all times - or me more times than I like to admit - but really seems to come to a head when a student is just past the "new student" phase and feels like they have grasped the art. In point of fact they have almost certainly not grasped anything but their own understandings.  Headmasters and senior students spend literally decades learning every aspect of the art; the new student knows little more than the basic mechanics and the names.  The best thing is to simply be silent and learn - and speak of what you do know (which is often not much).

Outcomes are beyond my reach and knowledge - what I do not know. I can merely do that which I am called to do and know - Love God, Love People, Preach the Gospel.  Use words if necessary.

For the rest, I have to pray and let God worry.

A Year Of Humility (XXXVI): Criticism

 

I hate criticism.

Saying that, of course, is to perhaps state a commonly held axiom:  no-one "likes" criticism.  But I have a special dislike of it, an aversion that is sometimes unreasonable in my attempts to avoid it.

It is fair to ask where it comes from.  Frankly, I have no idea.  I could come up with a possible source, my relationship with TB The Elder when I was younger, but that feels like the standard sort of excuse one could pick out of any commonly available psychology book.  I cannot think of any particularly jarring incident.

All I can tell you is that I do not like it.

I do not have a problem with self criticism - of a certain sort.  I will routinely "bash" myself in conversation, almost to the point that people will look at me in disbelief.  It is another habit, a habit likely born of getting people to react or laugh in tough situations by giving them something else to focus on.  But the criticism is never lasting or impactful in that sense: I know what I am bad at or fail at and can rip myself to shreds over it, but it seldom changes me.

Neither of these, of course, is the point of the quote of Ephraim of Arizona above.

Accepting - truly accepting - criticism requires the sort of humility that I can only grasp at times.  It requires the ability to listen without judgement, accept the truth without defense, and then act on the criticism.  It is incredibly hard to do when I am invested in my own correctness or the incorrectness of the source or just the source indeed (how many times have I received useful criticism from people I may have had problems with!).  It means being willing and ready, at all times, to set aside practices and beliefs that I may have had for years or decades.

Not all criticism is the same, of course.  There is criticism for doing the right thing or unreasonable criticism for not being everything someone else expects; this can (and should) be easily ignored.  But too often I confuse the two, letting my opinion of the other or the situation exclude the point that I am being told something about myself that I can better.

If, as the Geronda suggests, agitation about the criticism is a measure of my ego, then I still have a very long way to go.

Deeply Troubled

I have struggled with this post.

A commitment I made years ago to the blog (and thus indirectly to you, my readers), is that I would be as honest as I could be.  In some ways, of course, that seems highly improbable - given, for example, the fact that I write under a nom de plume, which by default leads to certain things not being "honest".  On the other hand, that very anonymity, thinly veiled as it may be, gives me the ability to be honest in ways I likely am not in real life:  in a sense, this is as likely the "real me" as my actual existence, just in a different way. Two sides of the same coin, as it were.

With that said, I am deeply troubled.

I almost never write on current events.  Part of that is due to the fact that current events make for miserable applicability in the future and at best are a personal view of the world at large which can often age badly over time.  The second is that over time, I believe myself to have built a community which are likely on "both sides" of the fence as it were.

But this week has shaken me badly.

I find myself in a position which I can only compare to 49 B.C., knowing that Caesar has crossed the Rubicon and that the SPQR (Senatus Popolusque Romanus, the Senate and the People of Rome) prepares for war.  I am likely a quiet partisan at best for one side or the other (which side, you will have to guess as neither Gnaeus Pompeius or Gaius Julius ever truly appealed to me as historical models) who really only wants peace and the ability to study and be in a garden with bees and rabbits and wuail and ducks and cats and dogs.

Perhaps this makes me Cicero, the strong supporter of one side (The Republic and Pompey) who dithered as much as did any good, was forgiven by the victor, and then killed after his death (although I suppose history remember him far more fondly than the one associated with his killing, Marcus Antonius).

We are, I fear, on the cusp of something as gut wrenching as 9/11, which also fell this week and changed the world after it.

What does that change look like?  I have no idea. If you had asked me 24 years ago what I thought the future would have looked like, it was certainly not this.

Has it changed me?  It has.  Can I speak meaningful about it?  Not now, not yet.  It is still to raw and the enormity of what we have become as a civilization is terrifying to me. 

It really feels like Rome circa 49 B.C.  The question - at least the most relevant question to me - is if the Cicero's of the world have a place in the coming age, whatever it turns out to be.

As we were reminded this week, it is those that seek to write and talk and speak of ideas that are some of the most likely casualties. 

Post Script:  If the event you feel the need to comment on the actual events themselves or express political opinions or even urge violence, do not bother:  these are my own thoughts and not meant to open this forum to the free-for-all of the Interweb.  There are other places that such things can be vented and argued over, and they are easy enough to find.  I can and will delete such comments. 

Essentialism (XXXII): Final (Essential) Thoughts

 Friends:

Thank you so much for your patience and tolerance on this journey. 

I can assure you that when I started to write about Essentialism back in January, I had no intention of making this into what has turned into a 31 week essay, a sort of extended book report that almost exceeds the length of a year of college classes. But the book was too complex, the ideas too nuanced and deep, that anything other than a full examination seemed to do.

It is fair to ask at the end of any journey "Was it worth it?" and "What did you learn?"

Was it worth it? Yes, I believe so.  It has been some time since I have given myself the luxury of focusing on a single book like this.  Reading, and re-reading, and then writing what I read has given me a focus on this idea that I had not anticipated.  In the question of breadth versus depth, I went with depth in this instance.  And I am not disappointed.

What did I learn?  Other than re-introducing myself to the concepts of this book and dwelling on them in more detail (this is not my first journey through it), I might argue it was less of a learning and more of a right timing issue in that - between a relocation and a re-orientation of my life - I was primed to look at my life and the things in it in a new way. Some of these things - for example -the sale of The Ranch - have already manifested themselves as they seemed to have become - in a sense - "non-essential" to my life as it now is.  As I continue to think on these things, I suspect there will be more.

These essays are now collected and posted to a page at the right, both for readers as they need them, but mostly for myself as I need to constantly keep such things in front of me.

There is one final quote I have to offer from McKeown from his last chapter:

"The life of an Essentialist is a life lived without regret.  If you have correctly identified what really matters, if you invest your time and energy in it, then it is difficult to regret the choices you make.  You become proud of the life you have chosen to live."

Or differently said, from the beginning of the book by Mary Oliver:  

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do

 with your one wild and precious life?"

Never Forget 2025

 Growing up when I did, Pearl Harbor Day was something that was punctually remembered every year.

As a pre-teen and middle schooler I had a large interest in World War II for reasons I cannot fully tell you at this time, so - perhaps more so than my peers - I understood what had happened and in a way, what it meant. What I did not really grasp was the visceral punch of the event in a way that made my grandparents; and parents' generation remember it ("celebrate" seems peculiarly inappropriate) as they did.

After September 11th, I got it.

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Gardens By The Bay (II)

 More Gardens by the Bay:

Petrified wood from Indonesia:

This water feature has a visitor:

A monitor lizard?  I am not sure, but he was bigger than I am comfortable with reptiles being.

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Gardens By The Bay (I)

 One of the benefits of having an approximately 10 hour layover in Singapore is that there is an opportunity to take a quick city tour.  The tour is about 2.5 hours so one does not get to see a great deal of the city, but at least one gets out of the airport

Our first stop was Gardens By The Bay, which is a 105 hectare/260 acre set of three gardens which encompass 1.5 million different species of plants. 

These sculptures are called Supertrees.  They are gardens themselves, and allow plants like ferns and vines to flourish.  They also has photovoltaic cells, which allow them to light up at night.

The gardens are filled with plants and sculpture.

The Last Moon Of Summer

Clouds of September

blind the evergreen's eyes 

from Autumn's approach.

A Year Of Humility (XXXV): Seventy Times Seven

 A week ago Friday night found my navigating my way through a cell phone waiting lot at New Home 3.0 airport.

As a confession, I was not in the best of moods.  I had come off a frustrating week of work and had not been able to let go of my irritation against a particular individual; I had snarled and grumbled all the way to the airport. Additionally, The Ravishing Mrs. TB's flight was late, and rather than arriving home at 2300 it was looking very much like we would be home after 0000 the following morning.

It was hardly my best look.

As I snaked my way around the curves of the cell phone lot (which seem universally unsuited for a place to wait no matter which airport I am at), I looked ahead to see a truck pulling out and the car in front of me hit their reverse lights.  Ah, I said to myself, they are going to pull back a bit, wait for the truck to go, and then pull forward.

The car did not in fact wait, but continued to pull back until I had the sickening feeling one has when realizes that one is going to be hit.  I honked, but of course it was too late.

The driver sat there for shock for a minute as I got out, looked at the car and checked with her.  Thankfully no injuries and the damage to her car seemed worse (I was hit right on the license plate; other than denting the license plate and cracking my cheap license plate frame, no issues).  She was distraught - and who is not after an accident?  We exchanged phone numbers and information, took pictures, and prepared to leave.  

She thanked me as she left for not yelling, as if she had anticipated something far worse.  It is only a car, I replied.

To our right was a gentlemen who, besides just being present for everything, needed a jump.  I had the cables and some minutes to burn, so I pulled in next to him, The cables were run, the dead battery brought Lazarus like to life, and we stood for a minute or two waiting.  

He, too, was apparently surprised by my reaction.  Or rather, my lack of one.

---

In Matthew 18:21-22, Peter approaches Jesus with a question: How many times should I forgive my brother after he sins against me?

Peter suggested seven times - which was three times the going rate that the rabbis gave, citing verses in Amos (Amos 1: 3, 6, 9, 11, 13) where God forgave the enemies of Israel three times.  Seven, then was more than double to traditional amount with a bonus round.  In terms of the times, Peter possibly felt he was being more than generous.

Christ's response, of course, was not seven, but seventy times seven - a poetic way to say "As many times as he asks for forgiveness", a point is clarifies in Luke 17:4:  "And if he (your brother) sins against you seven times in a day, and seven times in a day returns to you, saying 'I repent', you shall forgive him."  Interestingly, in both sets of verses the word "brother" (αδελφός) is used.   "Brother" could have meant a kinsman, a national identity, a neighbor, indeed all of mankind. Interestingly, Peter  used the phrase "my brother" (which may have been a bit awkward, as his brother Andrew was also a disciple of Christ); Christ in Luke uses the term "your brother".

No matter how close the "brotherly relationship", the intent was clear:  Forgive, as many times as you are asked to.  Even, especially, to those close to you.

---

Why is it that I can be so unforgiving of those near to me - my "brothers" (and "sisters") and so forgiving of those that I meet by happenstance or (literally) by accident? In the case of those close to me, I can quietly or loudly be as grumpy as a dog worrying a bone; in the case of those that are strangers, I can instantly forgive.

I perhaps have an answer, if not an excuse.

Those that are close to us have to ability to hurt us (in this sense mostly personally and spiritually, but it could be physically as well) in a way strangers do not.  Sometimes it is those in positions of power above us, be they managers or parents; sometimes it is those close to us in a familial sense:  husband, wife, children, parents.  Sometimes it is friends that we have years of history with.*

It is not just the matter that happens, the event or sin itself.  It is the fact that we have shared history and vulnerability with them.

There is nothing more hurtful that someone turning on you, perhaps not even realizing that they have done so, or putting you in a position where you are or appear weak and vulnerable.  It makes you chary of them.  Forgiveness can be asked for and perhaps even offered, but often at a surface level (at least for me).  There is - and perhaps this is me - a remaining sort of fear and reluctance, a holding back of returning to the space we shared.  

Strangers are different, of course.  They are people we may meet once in our life or see occasionally, and they have no more personal insight into us than we do of them.  It becomes perhaps easier simply because it is less of a personal transaction.  Like the mosquito that bites us, we move on.

---

What, then, does all this have to do with humility?

To be humble is to be willing to forgive - not just the strangers that glance off our lives, but our brothers and sisters, those with whom we have personal relationships and history. These seem to be the ones Christ is speaking to.

We forgive, of course, because the person asks (and yes, I understand there are not sincere apologies.  But that does not seem to be a distinction that Christ makes).  But we also forgive - or at least, we should forgive, as many times as it is asked of us because it is Christ's command to do so. 

And because we have been greatly forgiven of our own sins.  We have done to Christ through our sins far more than any brother or sister or stranger has done to us.

If we are to forgive - totally, repeatedly - we must be humble.

---

The point of this meditation is not to trumpet my own accomplishment - I assure you, this was more of an outlier than a regular event.  The point, instead, is the reaction of the strangers that I met, the apparent shock of having someone not over-react and indeed be understanding of the situation and in that sense, forgive.

Imagine what our relationships would look like - our personal relationships - if we could forgive with the same complete sincerity of heart:  I forgive you completely.  This leaves no space between us.  I will completely forgive you the next time as well.

Even to Seventy times Seven.

* = And to be clear, I am not discussing things like physical abuse or ongoing mental abuse or crimes.  That is a different thing; and Christ had different things to say about that.

 

On A Concert

 Last Saturday The Ravishing Mrs. TB and I went to a concert.

My "music era" spans my middle school through a year or so after high school, perhaps 8 years if I think about it that way.  It was arguably a magical and unique time in music, with the leftovers of the sixties merging into the end of the mid and late 70's and onto the 80's, a combination of folk rock, disco, hair rock, and the incipient rise of New Wave.  Musically, it was an amazing era, with bands that have managed to have their influence felt even today from the height of their popularity years ago.

My interest faded after that, a combination of college and different listening habit and changing interests. It is not that I have not found songs since then that I have enjoyed, but rather that they are one-offs at this point.  Seldom if ever do I seek out anything after that because of the performer or group, only the song.

Conveniently, the year of my graduation seems to have marked a watershed in the music movement as well; after that it was never the same as before.

---

This is only the fifth concert I have ever been to.  Only once have I seen a performer at the height of their popularity (Billy Joel in the late 1980's).  The others have all been what are effectively retro tours, smaller venues or groups touring en masse as a sort of "era music".  This concert was no different:  three performances, one solo performer and two bands.

The makeup of those groups as I remember them is gone, indeed has mostly been gone for years now.  The solo performer had a completely different backup band than years ago.  Of the two bands, one had only a single original member (fortunately the vocalist), the other the lead guitar player and the vocalist.  The rest is filled out by musicians which were either older or younger, but definitely not from the original band.

The sets themselves were a combination of older things and some more recent numbers, at least to my ears.  The first two performances were eight songs each, a reasonable length of time that hit most of their "greatest hits".  The last performance was almost twice that - a bit long for my taste, but having a catalog of 40 years, they had a great deal to pull from.

For all that most of the originals were not there, the performances were enjoyable.  The musicianship was what one would expect from people that do this for a living, and - especially from the younger musicians - there were moments of pure joy in their performances that warmed the heart, the true joy of someone doing something the love and in some measure, realizing a lifelong dream.

---

The crowd that had assembled (the venue was quite full) was by and large filled with individuals of my age and older - although there was more than a smattering of younger folks there as well (comforting to know that young folk recognize the classics for what they are).  It was not quite a "retirement" crowd, but definitively leaning more in that direction.  Which makes sense - the oldest performers there were in their late '60's; add 5 years on to the upper end of that (this seems reasonable) and gets an average age spread of something like 20 years.

There were occasional bouts of cheering and clapping, but none of the nonsense that takes place at more "popular" concerts - either because people are much better controlled or perhaps simply too old to engage in shenanigans. And the world outside with its politics, social movements, and all of the reasons that people argue was happily not mentioned at all. Just a large group of people, listening and singing along to the songs of their youth.

--

Observing my near neighbors and those around me, or those that passed me by on main access ways, gave me an interesting thought exercise.

I was surrounded by people who - for the most part - were grey (or bald) of head, in various body conditions that did not suggest their early twenties, armed in some cases with walking aides or wheelchairs or scooters.  Glasses were everywhere; if there were hearing aides, they had been removed (even with earplugs, the concert was plenty loud).

Almost half a century ago none of that was true.

Every person that surrounded me at the concert was at one time just as young as I was once upon a time, undoubtedly full of the hopes and dreams of youth.  Undoubtedly their years with this music were different in ways from my own but similar in that in fact this was soundtrack of their lives. This music was a backdrop to what for many is a formative period of life.

40 to 50 years later, the youth is fled, the things that filled our time at that period of our lives washed away by the years of adulthood and responsibility that came after, the hard times and the good times that taught us life was a great deal more than what was contained in the songs:  Love was never as good, heartache never as lasting, adventure never as long as what the music promised.

Yet the music remains.

---

Will I likely go to more concerts?  Hard to say.  Most of the bands that I remember are now on the end of their touring lives (and actual lives) and while I remain in awe at men in their late 60's that can still rock, the attraction of seeing this on a regular basis with that age or older holds little interest to me.  

In attending, I also realized that for all of the joy and wonder of watching a live show, it fails to recapture the magic of the music itself. Listening to a song from 40 years ago as I heard it at that time can take me back to a moment or a feeling; listening to it much later is simply a re-listening, not a remembering.

And perhaps, that in the end is the reason why concerts like this are items of interest but not intense desire to me:  unlike meeting people from my youth or doing something that I remember, these are simply an amped-up version of a memory, a transitory fleeing set of musical chords from a past that has moved beyond our ability to grasp.  

We can, briefly, perhaps relive it.  But even if, passing through those concert doors, we are somehow briefly teenagers or young adults again, it swiftly disappears as soon as the last chord is played.  

It is only we, among all living beings, that perhaps hearken to a past we can never truly recover.

Essentialism (XXXI): The Core Of Essentialism

 What, wonders Greg McKeown as he nears the end of his book, has Essentialist offered him?

More Clarity:  "As you continue to clean out the closet of your life, you will experience a reordering of what really matters.  Life will become less about efficiently crossing off what was on your to-do list or rushing through everything on your schedule and more about changing what you put on there in the first place.  Every day it becomes more clear than the day before how essential things are so much more important than the next most important thing in line.  As a result, the execution of those essentials becomes more and more effortless."

More Control:  "You will gain confidence in your ability to pause, push back, or not rush in.  You will feel less and less a function of other people's to-do lists and agendas.  Remember that if you don't prioritize your own life someone else will.  But if you are determined to prioritize your own life you can.  The power is yours.  It is within you."

More Joy In The Journey:  "With the focus on what truly is important right now comes the ability to live life more fully, in the moment.  For me, being more present in the moment has been making joyful memories that would not otherwise exists.  I smile more.  I value simplicity.  I am more joyful.

As the Dalai Lama, another true Essentialist, has said:  'If one's life is simple, contentment has to come.  Simplicity is extremely important for happiness.'"

McKeown closes this chapter with the story of a father whose three year old daughter died.  As he put together a video of her life, he realized that it was not they had not gone on outings and trips, it was that he had no pictures of his daughter.  He was so busy capturing the scenery, the meals, the views, that he missed the essential thing.

This thought, says McKeown represents two of the personal learnings from the writing of the book Essentialism.  The first is how important his family is to him and how everything else fades in importance.  The second how short our time is on this earth and what a challenge it is to use that time - "precious - and precious is perhaps too insipid a word" - to spend on the essentials.

The Essentialists recognizes that time and mortality are real - and that both are short.

McKeown closes with the following:

"Will you chose to live a life of purpose and meaning, or will you look back on your one single life with twinges of regret?  If you take one thing away from this book, I hope you will remember this: whatever decision or challenge or crossroads you face in life, simply ask yourself, 'What is essential?"  Eliminate everything else.

If you are ready to look inside yourself for the answer to this question, then you are ready to commit to the way of the Essentialist."

---

On the Computer In My Pocket, I have added a countdown timer.  A Death Countdown timer.

I have averaged the lifespans of my maternal and paternal grandfathers and TB The Elder (who seems the most relevant) and put in a number.  Every day now, the calendar counts down towards that identified date.

Yes, of course I am cognizant of the fact that I could die tomorrow or five years from now.  But I need something that focuses the mind in a way more meaningful than that.  A fixed, estimated date has helped that.

When I get frustrated now, or feel stressed or too many tasks come at me, I pull out the timer and look at it.  There is not a lot of time on that calendar.  And then I ask myself "Is this really worth it?"

At least one of my coworkers says I talk about death too much. But I will also note in our conversations, she has started to be willing to take more time off and not worry about work so much.

I may not be an Essentialist, but hopefully I am on my way.

The Collapse CCIII: White Out Again

11 December 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

Day 3 of the Snowstorm

The constant snowfall has deadened somewhat from the previous two days to at least a manageable wash of snow which has paced itself to a slow, meandering fall punctuated by flurries. I cannot tell you the full amount it has dropped, my guess would easily be three feet or more.

The paths around the house have become gullies, passages between the greenhouse and outhouse and around the house. It has not been so bad during the day: every two hours or so I go out and stamp everything down and rake the roof. It has been enough that in the morning, there is a credible amount to clear, but not an impossible amount.

Apparently to counterbalance the declining snowfall, the wind has picked up.

You cannot imagine the wind on this snow. It howls and yowls and pushes the snow along as if it were piles of dust or pet hair driven by a fan inside a house. Seeing the it hurl the snow hither and yon, one begins to understand the fear of being caught alone in a snowstorm in the plains. Here it moves the snow back and forth, piling it up against side of The Cabin before pulling it away again. It remains the constant voice beyond the low murmur of the fire, a mocking and yet playful voice as it both brings the cold and makes the snow into vortexes and swirls.

Other than the in and out activity of making trails (which I begrudge every time I have to open the door and heat leaks out), there is not a great deal that can be done. Read. Watch the fire. Huddle under blankets. Drink tea.

Solitaire, Lucilius.  I have played solitaire with a deck of cards for the first time in I cannot remember how long.

Sitting here in the encroaching darkness with nothing but the fire for light, I begin to appreciate how lonely the prairie must have been in Winter.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Singapore Airport (IV)

The Rain Vortex is one of the best known features of the Singapore Airport. It is located in the Jewel Changi portion, which is mixed use entertainment and retail area.  One can take the train around it (without leaving the airport) or exit the airport and walk to it.

The sounds of outside:

A very cool motion sculpture:

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Singapore Airport (III)

 Not just indoor gardens - Singapore Airport has an outdoor garden as well!

Glass floor with an aquarium underneath it; you walk on the fish and plants:

Kopi, apparently, was a local version of coffee.  The different varieities:

What goes with kopi?  A pie, of course!