Contemporary Resort at Walt Disney World

Anyone care to guess the subject of this photo? Hint: although it's an 'elevated train', it's not in Chicago. . . 

Elevated train
Round the seven seas lagoon.
Contemporary.

Way to go, Elaine!

Book Reviews

The official taxi cab threshold, for anyone who's interested, has been set at 6688. That's a lot of cabs.

Done with 'The Moviegoer' and on to 'Oryx and Crake', by Margaret Atwood. A few things about Walker Percy's 1962 National Book Award winner before moving on to Atwood's novel. First; what malaise! That's the book in one word. I should've remembered this book would put me in a funk. The book is set in New Orleans, in the early 1950's. The plot follows the post-war, stock and bond selling life of Jack 'Binx' Bolling. Binx is close to 30 and has a strong extended family matriarch who, in the absence of closer parents, has set about organizing and setting expectations for Binx. It is her step-daughter, Kate, who Binx identifies with and is the only one who seems to understand Binx's quest. The publisher states on the book jacket, "In his portrait of a boyish New Orleans stockbroker wavering between ennui and the longing for redemption, Percy managed to combine Bourbon Street elegance with the spiritual urgency of a Russian novel." The part referring to "a Russian novel" is a bit too much, for me, I think. Nonetheless, an excellent book that spins a bit too fast towards the end but definitely closes the circle.

Atwood's novel is, at two-thirds of the way through, just short of electrifying. Atwood is a master of the 'plausible science fiction' genre and this tale, of the end of humanity, is not only a good read but a smart one, too. Anyone who enjoys the moral and ethical tug of the current bio-genetic and environmental debate should pick this up at the bookstore (there's one conveniently listed at the bottom of this page) and spend some time in a cozy chair, or airport terminal.

I like to clean up
Loose Ends before moving on
To new thoughts and blogs.

Photo of the China Pavilion at Epcot

Photograph courtesy of BloggerBot and Hello! 

Chicago Taxi Cabs

I saw something today that made me take pause and wonder what the chances were, on any ordinary day in Chicago, that a person would see the same thing I saw. It's purely a numbers game but it really caught my eye and made the analytic in me take note and caused my fellow pedestrians to steer clear of me as the smoke caused by the gears turning in my mind came pouring out of my head. What was it? I saw the number 1 taxi cab on W Jackson Blvd, a block west of the Chicago Board of Trade. What's so special about that? Absolutely nothing -- except that as I started paying closer attention to the cabs I saw numbers as high as 4962 on the cabs. (Each cab has its own medallion, the license to operate so to speak, and a unique number to identify it from the thousands of other cabs in Chicago. These numbers are unique to all cabs in the city so, in other words, although there may be 30 odd cab companies, there is only one number 1 cab in all of Chicago.) Pretty interesting. But then, the reality set in; what's so neat about it? Why does the number one have some greater expectation or importance than number 478, 2921, or 4962? Why did this one, this solitary cab, cause me to stop whatever was bumping about in my head (Walker Percy's 'The Moviegoer', if you must know) and think, 'Hey, this is pretty cool"? I don't know.

The everyday walk
Made somewhat exciting when
I saw that taxi.

Tulips

The tulips are gone in Chicago. When in bloom, they line the Magnificent Mile, the Gold Coast, and the avenues around the financial district in their granite cases and shout for all who have eyes that spring is here. However, their job as heralds quickly gave way to death and now they stand, without bloom, like skeletons in marble sarcophaguses. It might've been the recent storms with pelting rains and volatile winds but it also could've been just their time. The pansies, which previously balanced the tulips height in perfect counterpoint, now call to mind forlorn dogs waiting for their masters to return, not knowing they cannot. Strange how a simple flower box can come to this.

A new hotel this week due to a failure to book the previous one and the perfect storm of a food service convention. As a result: a longer walk along the north shore and shopping district and a new walking pattern.

One, two, three, four, five:
The walking mantra. Now; primed.
Two, three, five, seven.

Drudgery

I've reached the point in a project where all of the 'newness' has worn off and it no longer carries with it any real excitement: it's just another implementation. Like the flip of a coin one of two positions emerges; one side is boredom and the other is grudging acceptance that, at least, the euphoria has worn off and the work may start.

It probably hasn't helped matters that I'm reading 'The Moviegoer', by Walker Percy. It's amazing how one book can make you want to be an introvert again. It's too early for the dog days of summer, but not too early for a vacation. Come on, Memorial Day.

Work sounds: 'Blah, blah, blah.'
I just want to play with Hayes
And make it all stop.

MP at 40

And the best news all day, you ask? The upcoming release of the 40th Anniversary 'Mary Poppins' soundtrack, courtesy of Walt Disney Records. As many of you know, I teeter on the edge of obsession with this film. And, via the magic of the repeat button on my son's CD player, he, too, is dangerously close by virtue of track 14 on the 35th Anniversary soundtrack, 'Step in Time'. (How obsessed am I? Take a look; many of you know me by my alter ego.)

What's so remarkable about a bulletin board group, you ask? Well, the person who responded to my post actually happens to be the person responsible for the aforementioned 40th release at Walt Disney Records. Pretty cool, if you ask me. I think I've been pushed down the face of the obsession cliff. Look out below!

'Sister Suffragette'
Is mine. 'Step in Time' is his.
What? Our favorites.

Patty and Eugene

I've been drawn into a very interesting discussion regarding language, its deconstruction, and its effect on our relationships with those who matter most: our God; our families; our fellow travelers; our soul mates. The discussion stems from Eugene Patterson's 'Answering God: The Psalms as Tools for Prayer' and originates with Patty Hana's careful examination of how Patterson broaches the subject of language levels. (Please see Patty's blog for her thoughts on this topic, dated May 11.) I've ordered this book and am growing ever anxious to interpret it myself; I'm especially eager to think about removing the 'unnecessary' from our language and learning what is essential. We shall see.

On another topic altogether, it takes 1,297 steps to reach the client site from my hotel in Chicago including the subway. Bryan, that's for you.

Impractical shoes
High heels, pointy toes. Yes, these
Men do not suffer.

Actuarial Tables

Well, it was bound to happen. There are a few items in one's life that the actuarial tables are designed to predict: you have a 1 in 2 chance of being involved in an auto accident in your lifetime; you have a 1 in 9 chance of your house catching fire; you have a 1 in 22 chance of having your car stolen; etc. (These are not 'real' actuarial values; they're merely illustrations. Those who know me also know I've endured all three before reaching 35 so, perhaps, going forward, I should be exempt from all three. After all, one can wish.)

These garden variety chances are insignificant to the mordant ones: for example, what is the chance your child will survive to adulthood? (These are the ones that occupy the dusty corners of my mind and refuse to let go. They return, like wicked migratory waterfowl, to your mind over and over again just as your brain shuts down for sleep.) This actuarial table, which I'm sure exists, is the bane of my existence. Slowly, but surely, one crosses the threshold of potentially catastrophic events in the life of your child and, hopefully, you emerge, relatively unscathed, on the other side. (But for the grace of God -- thank you.)

Yet another of these milestones was passed this weekend: child choking on food. Not the 'cough, cough' type, mind you, but the full monty. Fortunately, I reacted with less volatility than usual, and the offending pickle (yet another reason to not eat at McDonald's) was quickly thrown in the trash can. (Although, I did look at it for quite some time afterwards, in amazement and fear. A pickle!) The boy is fine and, more importantly, for my mind's sake, I can cross another actuarial item off the list. God help me.

His life; more precious
Than I consider mine. And,
To think; a pickle!

Just Do It

It's not that I don't want to write; in fact, it's the opposite. When something is revealed to me I always want to put it into words: the job of the poet. Then why is it so hard? Why is it so hard to transfer the thought, the thread in your mind to bits and bytes or scratch marks? Is it because the urge hits you at the most inopportune moment?

I don't know. But, nonetheless, it is.

Air rushes by me
And brings the sweet, street perfume
To the subway stairs.