Ducklings

The weather here on Long Island has been cool and wet, presumably causing the various waterfowl to hatch a little later than usual.  In any case, this week was the first time there were any ducklings, six of them in a row carefully following their mother along the shoreline.  Many people seem happy to greet such things, and pause to take pictures or point them out, even in these frantic times.  The same reaction has occurred in the last few weeks with the cygnets and goslings, which already seem largely grown into adolescence.

It is comforting to encounter an example of such cycles of nature,  however mundane.  We applaud the first crocus, the opening of new leaves on maples, whatever renews the world and promises the future will be somewhat as the past.  The ducks, with their hidden nests and fragile eggs seem more unlikely to survive than many other more stubborn flora and fauna.  That very vulnerability makes them attractive and the subject of aesthetic metaphors.

Ducklings of course add to the beauty of the landscape.  Countless pictures are constructed of them bouncing confidently along the waves, among the sharp sparkles of the solstice sun.  We assume they have not a care in the world, not even caring if it is sun or rain or hot or cold.  As long as mom is nearby.

Long Island wildlife in this century is only that which prospers near humanity.  The diversity and fecundity encountered by the first European settlers almost three hundred years ago is almost gone _ the lobsters and flocks of waterfowl and teeming schools of fish and vast beds of oysters and clams, turtles and snakes and wolves.  Some species thrive _ algae, deer, raccoons, jellyfish, invaders like ragweed or phagmacites  or squirrels or starlings or rats.  It’s just a matter of whether humans can tolerate them or try to kill them either on purpose or accidentally.  But, in the sense that the humans do not actively encourage such success, they all remain true wildlife.

Ducklings, in a way, are a calm in the ecological storm.  They seem well equipped for most of the projected coming climatic disasters _ they adapt well to heat and water, they are adaptable vegetarians.  If vertebrate life survives, it’s likely it will include ducklings paddling peacefully along the shore in June. 

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Like all things in our crowded lives, ducklings sometimes disappear or reappear in my conscious memories.  I never noticed them until I was teaching preschool in Boston in the 70’s with my future wife, when “Make Way For Ducklings” was pretty much mandatory reading, and led to expeditions to the shores of the Charles River to show our classes the real thing.  When we had our own boys on Long Island they were a cute and available introduction to wildlife, nature, and seasons.  As I went through my midlife crisis, they provided visual cues in sketches and paintings.  And now, they are just another joyful and sad reminder that another year has gone by.  I’m not yet in my dotage to feed them breadcrumbs from the shore, but I’m sure that will come.

Many  things are like this, of course, not there for large chunks of our lives, suddenly in view or important, and often cycling back out.  The danger is not in ignoring them _ for we can never be nearly aware of all the possibilities all the time _ but ignoring the fact that we are ignoring much.  In this culture it sometimes seems we have far too finely honed our concentration and often forget that by concentrating we are by definition missing the larger picture.  This means we may accomplish a goal, but that goal might not be relevant nor important nor even good.

As a software programmer, who by logical necessity must focus on narrow channels to accomplish anything, I have had to relearn the joy of open experience after retirement.  That’s a totally different way to channel consciousness, and most of the time such an approach would have let to utter failure at work.  But today _ ah, today _ I can once again love ducklings as part of this marvelous world and be grateful that I can notice them.

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Row of ducklings _ count them _five

Fluffy balls so cute, alive
Follow Mom on sparkling waves
Content and confident and brave.
All who see them smile with ease
Remember childhood’s blissful peace.

I haven’t seen them since, you know,

I dream they found someplace to go.
Hawks sail high, cats prowl the shore,
Danger comes from those, and more.
All moments pass, may they be safe,
No matter, thank their passing grace.


-no photo this week _ see poem!

 

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Unless you got to this page through some weird back-door search path, you have probably not thought about ducklings in years.  And yet, as soon as the word appears, there is a grand confusion in your mind of all kinds of personal memories.  Unlike standard word association, in real consciousness some of these overlays have stronger value than others.  That is part of what makes you completely unique.  Now that the word “ducklings” is being bandied about, of course, it is almost impossible for you to willfully not think about ducks.  And yet, that will all magically fade somewhere in a few minutes.

It’s part of the old question about trees falling in a forest.  If nobody is looking at a blog entry, is it still there?  Suppose you are just learning English and have absolutely no associations with the word “ducklings”?  And, no matter what, there are certainly more critical and interesting things in your life this moment for you to spend time and energy on.

Your mind is so capacious that you can store infinite amounts of odd and unused trivia like this for your entire life.  Yet it can be recalled from eternal oblivion by reading a computer entry, or by seeing waterfowl while you are taking a walk, or by any other of thousands of minor intrusions into your experience.  You remain the most fortunate of creatures, not required to live simply in the moment that you happen to be plopped into, but rather able to expand the moment instantly into something grand that encapsulates the entire universe.

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One reason our species is dominant is that we can eat almost anything.  Algae, raw fish or red meat, raw or prepared vegetables, stuff fresh, stuff preserved, stuff in decay (e.g. cheese).  Stuff treated with chemicals like salt or smoke to preserve it.  And just about anything at all will do if we are hungry enough.

But if we are not quite that hungry?  Ah, books have been written about that, how some cultures will eat pigs and cows, but not dogs.  How other cultures avoid pigs or cows.  Or not certain grains, or only “organic” or never insects.  A lot depends on where you grew up and what you have learned.

American culture is kind of ambivalent about ducks.  They are not purely a food item, like chickens.  They are not purely wild waterfowl like ospreys.  They are raised and sold commercially at the same time that they are fed in town ponds throughout the land and inspire children with their cuteness.  So we encounter the odd behavior of watching diners enjoy roast duckling at restaurants, and the same people later slamming on brakes and almost causing accidents to let a family of ducklings cross the road.  Nobody ever claimed that humans were logical, or not complicated.

In a more perfect world, we would probably find some way to replace eating vertebrates with something like soybeans or algae remanufactured into artificial food.  Already today, some people would prefer living on a diet of cheese doodles and soft drinks to almost anything else _ it is not beyond the realm of possibility that in the future everyone will become pretty squeamish about food that came from animals (not only for ethical, but also for the practical reasons of avoiding the disease, pollution, and global warming from raising the herds we currently consume.)

But today, this moment, we will let the little wild ducklings go about their business, grateful that we can watch them without scheming of ways to ensnare them for dinner tonight.  Ignoring our instincts to simply appreciate the beauty and mystery involved in the planetary ecology.

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Grandpa Malley had been born near a nuclear power plant around the beginning of the time of troubles, and was later part of a group of ducks modified by bored geneticists who needed something to occupy their minds and hands during the collapse of civilization.  He was consequently one of the new breed who could converse in language and remember the past; and remained unique in seeming to be able to live forever.  He was something of a celebrity in the community, and foreign visitors often flew in to visit.  But he most enjoyed sharing stories with the little ducklings on the pond.

“Tell us,” they would beg, “tell us a scary human story.  Tell us about the old world.”  And, at least for a while, until they became bored as all little ducklings do, they would listen to his tales.

“Well, in those days we had great storms, long storms, terrifying storms like there never are any more, and ocean waves that were higher than trees.  Only ducks could survive in seas like that.”  They all smiled in pride.  “Then there were the great hordes of humans, desolating the country, eating everything they found _ and they found almost everything, except our ancestors, safely offshore in the windy waters.  That was when we were saved forever from the great hawks and evil cats.”  They all shuddered at the mention of those dark creatures of legend.  “Eventually, everything settled back down to what we have now, our peaceful, calm,  green world.”

“But are the humans all extinct?” asked one of the bolder youngsters. 

“Extinct?  Well, we don’t really know.  It’s a big world.  But certainly they are not as they once were, they no longer bother us.  I’ve heard from many places, and no one has found any yet.  Perhaps they are truly gone.  Perhaps a remnant remains, somewhere.”  This always caused a ripple of apprehension.
 

Then the little ducklings realized the sun was moving on, and there was much yet to experience.  They thanked Grandpa Mallard and paddled off excitedly between the sparkling ripples.  And if Grandpa Mallard were equipped to think abstract thoughts, he would indeed have thought, “what a long, strange trip it's been ..." 
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This finishes up two weeks after I first saw the tiny little golden blobs bobbing along.  Waterfowl grow amazingly fast in the beginning, and there are no ducklings easily found anywhere anymore, the young geese are almost indistinguishable from their parents, and only the grey of the cygnets indicates their immaturity.  Whenever we are convinced that change takes time, that stability is the rule of nature, that there is some kind of slow rhythm to the cosmos or the seasons, we should consider the rapid evolution of little ducklings and meditate on the importance of each moment in a single fortnight.

Central Park In June

Everyone knows Central Park.  If they have never actually been there, they have seen television shows, photographs, movies or read stories and novels involving it.  It’s a world treasure, with a physical location and a real past.  Yet, even laden with myths from origins through its varied and strange vagaries of history, and the real fables which have occurred there, it is nevertheless astonishing to experience in real life.

Not so obvious is how much it changes with the seasons.  In autumn it can be incredibly sad, leaves falling and people starting to wear warm clothes and late sun mists casting nostalgia everywhere.  In winter it is a small and fragile space, with branches barely tracing webs over the looming buildings walling in on all sides.  In spring, everything is flowers and hope and attention is focused on details of the blooms and the first leaves and the signs of happiness to come.  And in summer, such as mid June when I was there, it is vast and crowded, with trees hiding the fact that it has boundaries, a grand stretch where it is easy to get lost, as crowded with human herds as the great plains in their bison-filled glory.

In June, the hidden and isolated nooks of the grand design are at their finest.  The ramble is truly a lonely wood, the row boats on the green pond evoke Europe from the Bethesda fountain, the carousel tunes ancient days.  Model sail boats skim the shallow pond where children climb on the Alice statue, rubbing the bronze bright.  There are statues and water, and arches, the zoo, and views, and always the incredible flora, including the magically preserved American Elms.

And, of course, always people.  Sun bathers on every inch of grass, ballplayers of one kind or another on every field (for the outdoor time is still new, and exciting, and not yet too hot), and babies, and performers of all types.  Photographers, vendors, the striding rich and hoping-soon-to-be rich.  Snatches of every language on the planet from the tourists.  You can become caught in a trance as you walk, which might be dangerous because there is a need to be aware of the joggers, and bicycles, and roller blades, and swarming children, and _not least_ many examples of oblivious humanity lost in pursuit of inner dreams.

The thing is _ there is hope.  Hope for people, hope for our civilization, hope that in spite of the evils we imagine, things may not crumble and the world may continue on well.  If countless folks can coexist so well, where such variety can be accommodated in peace and joy,  perhaps the future can become more like this everywhere.  It’s a fragile, and probably naïve fantasy, but easily accommodated by this glorious afternoon in June.

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I love the fact that the perfect trees and the manicured flowers are maintained by trained, paid, dedicated professionals.  I have nothing against home gardens _ I take care of my own turf and my wife turns our patio into a floral wonderland each spring, but I am a person of limited means and I appreciate the grand public displays.  I also think such works are greatly enhanced by the presence of other people, who make the setting special.

Parks are a lovely barometer of community health.  Sadly neglected, overgrown, dark and dangerous public places are a sad commentary on a culture in decline, unable to maintain its own past standards.  Crowded bricks and concrete without a horizon are a desperate attempt to provide a minimum standard of living to an impoverished city.  But a clean, well maintained, beautiful park _ moreover one that is open to all and respected by all _ is a vibrant sign of health and dreams of the future.

Parks of course have a wide variety, being now designated all the way from vast impenetrable stretches of wilderness to tiny stamp-size resting places with a bench overlooking almost anything.  No matter.  They are far more interesting and indicative of the civilization than any private hidden wealth.  I think they are one of the best inventions humanity has ever come up with.

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While strolling Central Park one day

Dodging bikes and runners all the way

I stopped to gawk and stare

At the people every where

Mostly happy, very busy, on display.

I heard some lilting foreign talk

(whistle)

And saw peculiar dress and walk

(whistle)

A dog and woman nicely dressed

Bumped me seeming quite distressed

I mumbled “sorry there” and moved

She tugged her little pet which barked

June was all in green

There was too much to be seen

In New York City visiting the Park.

http://www.centralpark.com/
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Unless you are a billionaire, commercial ocean fisherman, forest ranger, or farmer, you probably appreciate any parks to which you have access.  They give you access to the common heritage of humans, and in increasingly crowded conditions allow a space for dreaming, beauty, and meditation.  That is especially if you are one of the less fortunate people in the world, or simply in a less fortunate situation in your complicated life.

Parks cost public money and time, and it is always a delicate balance how much should be expended on them, by whom, and for whose benefit.  A part (like a golf course) for only the wealthy is of little general use to the community, although it may allow a kind of envious gaze into an imagined Shangri-La from the perimeter.  Vacant lots in the middle of blighted and crime-ridden slums, without capital nor effective protection, may be called parks but scarcely serve any such purpose.  Effective parks somehow combine the resources of the well off with the needs of those less so, and promote mixing of the various social classes.

By that standard, Central Park is remarkably successful.  And, in fact, it is sometimes hard to see how it could be a model for anything else, since its conditions are rather unique.  You should be grateful that it is available to you to experience one kind of a vision of society.

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“Park” can mean many different things, although related by involving relatively open space.  Wilderness areas are wild and generally inhospitable to casual use.  Natural parks are more amenable to tourists, with roads and trails and lookout areas, but still retain the natural form and beauty.  Historic parks are a mix, whose only common denominator is that something famous _ such as a battle or discovery or birth _ happened there.  Village parks are generally either neatly manicured town squares, or well-maintained common natural acreage.   But the great city parks _ such as those in Paris and New York _ are completely man-made, involving design by talented specialists, the labor of thousands, great cost to construct, and expensive ongoing resources.

Central Park, of course, is one of the latter.  Famously designed by Olmstead and Vaux, it was constructed from boulders and marsh sparsely populated by the poor.  They did it in the grand European manner, with areas to remind city dwellers of grand mansions, and lonely dells, and romantic interludes from novels.  It became a place to see and be seen, a success from its opening in the late 1800’s.   At this late date, with the trees grown fully and the mosses creeping back on the rocks, no one can believe that the brooks and ponds and waterfalls, and vistas are all planned and, in fact, use city water for their effects, and a vast army of park workers, paid and volunteer, to keep it in trim.  It seems completely natural, as all successful city parks due, such as the new ones here along the Hudson and East River _ simple preserves with a couple of amenities thrown in.

And, because Central Park is wholly artificial, it is also easy for it to slip into ruin.  This happened in the mid twentieth century, when the city was going bankrupt and the well-off were fleeing to suburban areas.  At that time the park was largely a place to avoid, and for those brave enough to risk the rampant crime, what could be seen was sad and forlorn and shabby _ not romantic at all.  Fortunately, today New York (and many large cities) are just roaring along, regaining their usual magnetism as beacons of civilization for the most able, ambitious, and wealthy.  And Central park came back with it and is now one of the premiere places on the planet to visit and enjoy.  There are probably some deeper morals and meanings here, but sometimes it is enough to just be happy and appreciate all the moment has to offer.

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The Falcon and the Coyote

Coyote had just arrived in the Big Apple, where he had heard the game was abundant and the living was easy.  It had been a hard and frightening trip, down noisy hard trails which went over rivers and had some nasty rocks rushing about.  But this _ he looked out of the bushes at a great glen in Central Park _ ah, this was indeed the land of milk and honey.  The rats and squirrels and geese he had encountered so far with fearless _ and easy pickings for dining anytime.

“You won’t make it here,” squawked a harsh voice overhead.

Coyote looked up at the bird perched jauntily overhead.  “What do you know, crow?” he retorted.

“A falcon, if you please.  You can call me PM.  That’s what the humans do, anyway. “

“You don’t need all this game for yourself _ there’s plenty for both of us.”

“Oh, that’s not the problem, “ replied PM.  “It’s those people.  They’re everywhere.  And they’re weird, unpredictable, and dangerous _ at least to you.”

“But not to a fine fellow like yourself, I suppose,” said Coyote sarcastically.

“Nope.  They seem to be quite thrilled that I’m around.  I’m wildlife…”

“Well, so am I.”

“Ah, but, “ continued PM, “I’m ACCEPTABLE wildlife.  They think I’m cute.”

“I’m cute enough.”

“And, “ continued PM relentlessly, “they don’t think I’m going to eat their little pets and carry off little children.”

“I had a cousin who did that,” noted Coyote, “back in Jersey.  I learned my lesson, thank you, and I never would bother them.”

“You may know that, and I may know that, “ PM lifted his plumage in a shrug, “ but I somehow don’t think they will know that.  But look, you don’t have to take my word for it.  I’ll show you.”

“OK, I guess.  What do you suggest?”

“We can find a good hiding place, near a bunch of people, with an even safer hiding place we can escape to, because you’re going to need that.  Then I will show myself to the public, and watch their reaction.  Then you can do the same.  You’ll be convinced, believe me.”

“Well, all right,” agreed Coyote reluctantly.

They found a nice thick thicket near a crowded bridge, filled with strollers and rollers and baby carriages.  PM flapped his wings noisily, circled low overhead, and settled in plain sight on an exposed dead branch.  The commotion among the onlookers was tremendous.  People grabbed pictures and cellphones and babies and pointed them at the falcon, laughing and amazed.  From across the fields others were running closer to see.  Everyone was staring and congratulating each other on what they had seen.  This went on for some time, and then PM flew off, took a couple of great upward circles, and quietly and unobtrusively made his way back to the thicket. 

“Now you try it,” he suggested.

So Coyote proudly strutted out of the thicket and perched boldly on a ledge in full view of everyone.  Oh, there was excitement alright, but a lot different than what had greeted the falcon.  People grabbed children and ran away, big dogs were growling and straining at the leash to get at him,  everyone was edging back, phones were being used frantically and sirens began to sound in the distance.  It seemed a wise time to back off, so Coyote dashed frantically through the twisty escape route to the predetermined save point, panting and exhausted.

“Told you,” rasped a voice overhead.

Coyote took the point, and that evening headed back upstate, where the living was harder, but less vicious.  City parks are for people, he thought to himself, and for the right kind of animals.  There may be a moral in there somewhere for everyone,  a metaphor for who can thrive in New York, but I’m certainly not going to point it out.

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Parks, particularly city parks, can be a good indicator of the wealth and health of a civilization.  They are an immense initial and ongoing expenditure, with only casual connection between cost and benefit.  The best ones are just ostentations displays of the surplus and wealth of the society.  People in parks are often of all classes, mixing indeterminately, enjoying life in their own ways, a lovely expression of at least a little beauty appreciation and freedom. 

Central Park is one of the greatest, a fine example of all that could be, and an equal example of no matter what things may seem, they contain surprising historic and contemporary depth.  Also, a manifest object lesson in just how fragile even our finest achievements are

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My Vanity Book

(Visit www.wslingluff.com)

For a dedicated reader, a book is magical.  It provides escape, learning, exploration, expansion.  Good writers are as the gods themselves.  And, like relations with almost any god, readers soon think they could become writers.  “I can do that.”  They fail to realize that good writing is a craft, filled with tricks of the trade that must be painfully learned.  They do not realize that authors work hard.  Successful authors must target an audience in subject, content, and style.  But the reader, anxious to say what needs to be said, decides to do it “my way.”

Then, once having written something, long or short, about whatever, a reader thinks it is time for an audience, usually by publishing into the electronic or paper world.  That will establish a base of readers, maybe lead to a movie deal.  Sit back and watch the money roll in.  If nobody in the immediate surroundings thinks much of the piece _ or won’t even bother to look at it _ well, so what.  Pearls before swine, after all,  all that is needed is the right readers.  And if nobody can be found ever, there is still the “Emily Dickenson escape” that the future will recognize true worth.  It’s all harmless fun, providing happiness and hope to anyone on a budget.  Well, harmless enough unless the reader/writer gets too seriously monomaniacal and quits the job, leaves the family, escapes to a faraway isle, and drinks typing life away.

Today, as always, anything can be done for a fee.  Money will buy someone who can outline the book, or actually write the book, or provide workshops and evaluation of the book, or edit the book, or print, expose and try to sell the book.  Success in this scenario is true entrepreneurship _ the author merely coordinates all the pieces without actually doing much of anything else.  But the writer/author typically would rather be an artisan/artist and will fight to keep full integrity, regardless of consequence.  But, in any case, for not too much money there can be a professionally bound copy in hand, available on Amazon.

Cold reality is that there are too many books, too much entertainment, and the world is stuffed with writing and its cousins.  The past is available, the present is overflowing, and the only real sales are in narrow niches.  No matter how much energy is expended, the new work will not be the next Harry Potter.  Eventually, it is all a drain, for the artist merely wants to write some more.  And so the cycle begins again, at least for a while.  It’s all a lesson in the real world, far cheaper than a college course, about entrepreneurship.  The most successful entrepreneurs, of course, look at all the markets first and usually decide there is more to be gained in software design or providing food.

But the reader/writer nevertheless is left with a sense of pride and achievement.  There is an artifact in the world, tangible and unique.  And, at least in imagination, potentially longer lasting than the very individual who wrote it.  It is a romantic illusion to brighten life.  This world certainly needs more of those.

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My vanity book (the polite way to refer to it is as a “self-published work”) was simply an attempt at a family legacy.  Like everyone else, my children are extremely busy and do not have the time nor inclination to sit around and listen to what I think about everything.  So, I compose and make the thoughts more permanent and wait for a quieter time in their lives. 

Of course, it is simply a fantasy that such quieter times will ever come.  I did not read works by my parents or grandparents.  We are all now children of the world, we can pick our heritage at random from the internet to add to the environment provided by our peers.  After a few generations, we are really all one genetic structure, and in much less than that time we can change cultures and background.  Who we admire or hate, who we ignore, who we study diligently will follow our interests.  Our heritage, thus constructed, may even change over time as we change and become unique.  So to make a heritage legacy book is the height of _ what?  Not hubris, not presumption, not exactly futility.  Perhaps fantasy wish-fulfillment, but not particularly dangerous to anyone, nor hurting the present reality (which is, after all, what there truly is.)

I can dream of the ancient Roman, writing on a scroll or two, forgotten for thousands of years and then resurrected for a brief spell to glory, only to be forgotten once again.  My true sanity is that I recognize that dream for what it is.  Still, as an older person, some hope is always welcome, whether it involves lighting a candle or participating in social politics.  Or, for that matter, writing a vanity book.

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See Spot run. Isn’t this fun?

Writing, oh my.  Easy as pie.
I’ve got lots to say.  I’ll do it my way.
Once you can see, I’m sure you’ll agree.
I’ve published a book, so please take a look.
Cost me some jack, but I’ll get it back.
Waiting for sales, what if it fails?
The fault is not mine, pearls before swine.
In hundreds of years, they’ll be in tears,
To see what I wrote.  My ghost will gloat.
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In a way,  the concept of “you” in writing is a kind of reverse science fiction.  Instead of addressing someone in the present about what might happen in the future, you are presumed to exist in some kind of future, and writing is inevitably done from the present.  If an author understands that, it adds a very strange kind of twist to what is being said.

For one thing, in such a future (and here is science fiction itself) there may be very little writing, simply spoken language for communication, preserved and shared electronically.  So far, it is hard to see that happening, for so much electronic is in fact communicated through writing.  But such a time is, at least, conceivable.  Perhaps writing itself is some kind of short-term human phenomenon. 

Whoever you are, I hope you look at my vanity book sometime.  You can find it on Amazon, and it has enabled the look within feature so you can sample quite large chunks of it without spending anything more than your time.  It is a pleasant fantasy in my mind that there are many of you, whom I will never know, who will do so. 

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The Domination Era

Wayne Slingluff

 

The Domination Era is reverse science fiction _ describing ourselves to someone in the future. In retirement, I understand as much about the world and existence as I ever will, yet I realize how precarious my life (and perhaps civilization itself) has become.  My outlook may benefit or amuse or provoke, but it is a typical perspective from an ordinary life.

 

Individuals rarely have a chance to learn what their ancestors thought about the possibilities and contradictions of being human.  Hardly anyone has the time and energy to explore deeply our own beliefs and the facts which we consider true.  These essays provide a starting point for such meditations, or at least seeds for arguments in a café.
 
Potential readership would appear limited, since the target audience does not yet exist. But readers can contrast their own thoughts to mine, using a framework of (always debatable) facts about the universe as a guide for posing and discussing questions about meaning and existence and the contradictions of consciousness. 

 

Like most of us, I am absolutely unique, yet completely normal.  I have not discovered anything culturally significant, overcome great obstacles, nor led grand adventures.  I have tried to explain modern life, our concepts of science and culture, from the standpoint of an average person inhabiting this era of technology dominating everything.

 
I am an observer and chronicler of our environment.  The Domination Era is a work is a labor of love and hope, dedicated to a vanishing world that can still enchant us. 

 

The Domination Era is available at

 

My web site:    www.wslingluff.com

 

Or from Amazon (including a Kindle edition.)

Amazon includes a “look inside” feature that will allow browsing of the contents without purchase.

 

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Marcus Lucius put the finishing touches on his scroll.  He was quite proud of the work, a commentary on the ancient Greek commentaries on the ancient Egyptians.  He had hopes that that those in his circle would be properly amazed at his erudition and insight.

In a way, he thought, it’s magical that thoughts can be captured using magic marks on papyrus, or clay, or stone, or skin.  Later, even after death, the marks can be decoded by others and provide valuable and interesting information.  Even the illiterate gods have no such devices, immortal though they may be.  The he took the volumes to be filed at the local library with the countless others, and went about his daily routine.

The years passed, and Marcus Lucius was no more, the scroll simply resting in its dusty cool cellar as the Empire fell, barbarians trampled down the streets, and churches rose on the ruins.  A monk one day found the work, and because it happened to mention a certain precursor to Christianity, felt that it should be sent back to the alpine monastery for study.  So it was that it became (mostly) copied onto vellum by one of the patient artisans, artfully embellished with appropriate pictures and filigrees.

More time passed, and the monastery became a source of knowledge for the new generation, seeking a rebirth of knowledge after the passing of the dark age, and Marcus Lucius provided a reference to even older times, with even more ancient knowledge.  But the information mostly survived as footnotes and addendums in other hefty essays, soon printed and spread by the new printing technology.  It fell into obscurity and was only known to a few.

Even more time passed and the brand new age, filled with hope, wanted to compare their glory to that of the most glorious of history.  Marcus Lucius was rediscovered, and a few of his passages known to every schoolboy who had to learn Latin to be considered cultured.  The magic marks had done their job, and his thoughts were as real and complete as when he had first put them down, so long ago.

Yet all things pass, and a new generation had little need of such words, and no concern at all for the olden times, nor time for anything in a dead language.  Once again, oblivion became destiny.  And all reasonable people know oblivion is the true destiny of all that occurs in this world.

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Free copies arrived, handsomely bound, and ready to meet their excited (in my feverish imagination) audience.  Shoved into the hands of wife, children, acquaintances, where it was met with polite recognition, somewhat greater than admiration for a new hat, less than for a new piece of furniture.

From the time we are in third grade and write an essay on summer vacation, through employment when we write company manuals and project plans, and on into old age when we collect our wisdom for the ages, we are mostly convinced that what we do should be regarded, in the standard cliché, as “a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.”  Alas.  Other people in the world have their own cares, their own mission, and their own dreams.

Nevertheless, I’m glad I did this.  It is a kind of coda on a life slipping away rapidly, when newer memories fade, and thoughts run more slowly and raggedly.  That can be frightening, but believing there is something hard preserved in amber is a comfort.  And, of course, any project of this magnitude, requiring a few years of concentrated effort and organization is an achievement of which to be quite proud.

 

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