Self-Talk

 

   I like browsing through self-help books in the bookstore or the library. People who buy these books realize that deep down it's chaos. They have reached rock bottom and the bottom won't hold. In their flailings, they grab a self-help book like it was a seat cushion on the Titanic.

   I picked up a book in the store the other day entitled Mumbling Through Paradise, subtitled Is it ok to talk to yourself? Flipping through the pages I saw it was typical of all books in the self-help genre. There's an introductory chapter on the history of TTY (Talking To Yourself). Plato talked to himself. But then, so did Caligula.  The history takes the reader up to the present day - W, yes, 47, no. 

   The book has 18 chapters of anecdotes about people who talked to themselves. The chapter titled Saint Anthony lays out the science proving people who say the name of the missing object aloud as they search, find their object 18% faster than those who remain silent. 

   The chapter Silicon covers people in the tech industry. According to a pair of small studies, employees who talk to themselves changed jobs 10% more frequently than lips-sealed coworkers.  There were tangential chapters that interested me and also helped fill the two hundred pages of the book. Mañana features the journal article that suggests that our internal monologue is really more like a parliament filled with dozens of voices clamoring for attention than it is like the single entity we imagine ourselves to be. If the member from Doitlater is the loudest voice then things won’t get done in a timely manner. Poor Due-Diligence will just give up.

   Another peripheral chapter features the philosopher who wondered how he came up with his deepest ponderings. Every ten minutes he wrote down what he was thinking at that moment. In the end he discovered his thinking was shallow and boring - time for lunch...who's that new guy....very high..electric bill...

   The final chapter brings together all the insights of the book and offers several more or less practicable recommendations for moving forward. This particular book says it's okay to talk to yourself. Just don't drool.

It's a beautiful day, lads. Let's blow this joint!

Manga Manga

 

   On our recent trip to Paris I was curious what would impress our grandchildren as we walked around the city. There had been debate about going to Paris with Isla, who would turn 12 while there, and her brother Nash (9). Were they old enough to appreciate it? They had already flown from Boston to California to visit their other grandfather and to the island of Grenada to visit their grandmother who winters there on a catamaran. And to a couple of other countries.

   Isla, Nash and their father Joe arrived in Paris a day ahead of us. They were able to drop their bags at our Airbnb apartment, but wouldn't be able to check in till 4:30, so they spent the day walking around the neighborhood near the Bastille Monument. Our apartment entry was at 6 Boulevard Beaumarchais. Next door was a small theatre showing rom-coms and on the other side was a shop called I❤️Mooviz. This shop sold movie related paraphernalia and was to prove the kid's Louvre and their Arc de Triomphe  

   By the time Teresa and I arrived, Nash had acquired two Playmobil figures from the Mooviz shop. Isla and Nash both love these flexible three inch tall figures. Wikipedia says the figures can be used for "free-form play and miniature wargaming ". Isla bought a non-movie related stuffie which she named Manga Manga. The scandal of Manga Manga was that she cost 9 euros, about $11. And Isla wanted another Manga Manga to keep the first one company. She said Manga Manga was lonely.

Manga Manga - Too young to appreciate Paris?

  

Nash handed me one of the Playmobil figures and said I should give him a name. He looked like a Kevin to me. Nash named his figure Max. There ensued a couple of days of heavy free-form play and wargaming in which Kevin's head and arms were torn off repeatedly. A big-headed Spider Man also joined the crew. 

The Bastille boys, Kevin and Max

   These figures got to see as much of Paris as we did. The other big Paris attractions for the kids were the outdoor crepe griddles, often attached to the front of a cafe. Isla's favorite topping is whipped cream. Nutella is ok too. On this trip both kids started ordering strawberries, proof that travel is broadening.

  Some of the things the kids wanted to see were not available. The catacombs containing the bones of six million Parisians were closed for refurbishment. The puppet theatre in the Luxembourg Gardens was also closed, probably due to the puppeteers being on the Costa del Sol in Spain for the winter. It's good to have things to come back for.

   Nash spent the rest of his trip allowance on a boxed set of PlayMobil figures and lost interest in the Kevin/Max fight club narrative. Isla had enough money to buy Manga Manga's twin but she didn't do it, showing a new maturity. That proved to me that foreign travel is educational and good for kids. For adults too.

Spidey made it to the top in a single bound

Festina Lente

 

   Fesrina Lente is a Latin phrase which means make haste but slowly. This morning I hastened to see the lunar eclipse, but I was too slow. And clouds had slowly moved in during the night so I wouldn't have seen anything. I might have chartered an airplane to rise above the clouds but it was too late for that.

   I've seen lunar eclipses before. I remember my first from the back porch of my childhood home. It was slow moving and I didn't appreciate its awesomeness. I watched TV during the eclipse and checked on the moon during the commercials.

   My cousin Liz in Chicago reported she had clouds moving in. My brother Steve said he expected clear skies and sent this photo of the moonrise on Monday evening.

   Steve was proud that he had captured the setting sun in a nearby stop sign.

   He sent this picture this morning showing where the eclipse had been. Steve is a bit of a joker, but it's a nice photo nevertheless.

The view from Steve's house

Conventions

 

   On February 26, Teresa and I attended the Kittson/Roseau County DFL Convention in Greenbush. The local DFL Party (Democratic-Farmer-Labor) has been moribund for years but has revived since the re-election of Donald Trump. Present this evening were 31 delegates elected from the county precinct caucus meetings held earlier in the month. 

   This evening I was helping with registration. A striking thing about the caucus meeting and the convention was the amount of paperwork necessary. Not only did the delegates have to sign in, they had to be given six pieces of paper plus a ballot for voting for resolutions that had been forwarded from the caucus meetings.

  Another striking thing was all the candidates or their representatives who had traveled to Greenbush (pop. 682) to present their cases to us delegates. Tonight's convention would choose four delegates who would attend the district and state conventions. These four were the people who really mattered to the candidates.

   We delegates sat at tables and listened to our chairperson and to the various three minute speeches of the candidates or representatives. A delegate would hold up a red card when a candidate exceeded the three minute limit, which they all did. The candidates milled about the back of the room during the proceedings. They all knew each other. They had done this at previous conventions and they would be doing it at many more. There was coffee available. Coffee that tasted like it had been made with old stogies.

   The candidates reminded me of something or someplace and it took me a few days to remember the pub our family had visited one evening on the west coast off Ireland. I think it was in Clifden. The pub was crowded because there was music and because it was the night of the lotto drawing. Grand prize was a hundred pounds. This was in October right after 9/11, so there weren't many American tourists, though our daughter-in-law Heather chatted with four young American women at the bar.

  As the evening came to an end, I noticed a group of tall, thin young men, farmery looking, whatever that means, lined up along the back wall. As the bell for closing rang, the men moved in on the young women. The women took it well. They seemed to know the routine and gently rebuffed their suitors. The suitors must have luck on occasion otherwise what was the point of risking this humiliation.

   So it was the hungry suitors who I was subconsciously remembering as I watched the candidates. The suitors at least had Guinness to drink rather than bad coffee. Also, our son Matt won the hundred pounds, much to the chagrin of the locals.