When my mother died last year, I wrote a blog post that felt like it flowed through me. She was a lifelong smoker, so it had long left me dreading what would eventually happen: lung cancer. When the disease struck, I had months to ponder my mother's life before she succumbed. Because of that introspection, I was able to quickly form all those thoughts and feelings into an essay I'm still proud of.
Today I find myself in a very different circumstance. My sister Lisa has died, also after a battle with cancer. But I can't say that my thoughts are preprocessed: even with a couple months' warning, I'm still not ready to accept what has happened. She was supposed to have many more years ahead of her, and I can barely bring myself to believe that I won't see her again.
That false assumption may be what hurts the most. In recent years, we hadn't seen each other very often despite living about an hour from each other. Life was busy, as it always tends to be. Stress piled on top of stress, and there was many miles to go before we slept. There would always be time later though. Maybe next year, or the year after, we'd make sure to get together and spend some quality time. The bitter lesson learned is that none of us knows how much time we have left, and tomorrow is a precarious place for plans.
But I prefer not to dwell on lost opportunities or wallow in sadness. I'd rather take a moment to celebrate my sister.
Lisa and I were yin and yang. I was always quiet and shy and pragmatic; Lisa was outgoing and never let anything get in the way of her ideas. I was the A student that studied all night; Lisa would calculate the lowest grades she could get in the last quarter of the school year to still pass and then party all night. I liked to keep to myself; Lisa enjoyed being with people. Yet when we were together, we complemented each other well. Lisa did an admirable job trying to pull me out of my shell, as much of an impossible mission as that was. I'd like to say that I also made her a bit more pragmatic, but again, she never let anything get in the way of her ideas.
Things got off to a rocky start between us. She was seven years older, which is a prime difference for little brother annoyingness. Apparently there was even an incident that involved biting, though I don't remember it and am reluctant to believe it even happened. Still, many times over the years my mother would bring it up as the only time she actually spanked me.
But after a few bumps in the road, Lisa gladly stepped into the big sister role and guided me in the way only big sisters can. She helped me get my first job at StoryLand and offered me advice on the perils of high school. She even tried to get me to lighten up and party a little, though that effort failed. (All these years later, I wish I had taken that advice.)
After so many years of following our own paths, it's easy to forget how close a bond we had when we were younger. When my mother died, I looked through boxes of my old things stored in her attic. In one of them I found a bunch of post cards Lisa had sent featuring pictures of heavy metal bands (I was the fan, not her) with anecdotes from a cross country trip she was taking neatly detailed on the back. (Our biggest difference is in handwriting: Lisa always wrote with beautiful, flowing script, and I can't even read my own writing.) This made me remember some of the silly things we did for each other, like how I'd leave little notes tucked into the front door for her to find when she came home late at night.
When I went to college, Lisa invited me to visit her on the weekends. After a short commuter rail ride, I'd be nestled in her big couch, watching TV and mooching food like only a college student can. (I ate a LOT of chicken fingers during those visits after I found a stash in the freezer.) I never told her this, but those visits were a lifeline during the difficult transition of my college years.
After college, obligations came and time moved faster than it should. We saw each other less over the years, always relegating visiting plans to the purgatory of "soon." The most time that we spent with each other in recent years was during the long car rides to visit my mother during her illness. Sad journeys at the time, but I'm grateful for them now.
A few anecdotes are not nearly enough to express everything my sister was. Saying she had a "heart of gold," may be a trite cliché, but it is also incredibly apt. Lisa was caring and generous, and some of the biggest struggles she had in life stemmed from wanting to do too much for too many. A heart of gold, indeed.
I've always had struggles of a different kind. My pragmatism kept me focused on work to be finished and problems to be solved, and I spent a lot of time wrestling with dark thoughts on the edge of my mind and trying to make sense of things that don't seem to make sense. Because of this, I lost time I could have spent with Lisa. But then, I always thought there would be tomorrow. I also didn't often make the effort to see Lisa simply because knowing she was out there in the world, the beautiful spirit that was the yin to my yang, was enough for me. I deeply regret thinking that way now, and I'm once again stuck trying to make sense of something that doesn't make sense.
I don't feel I've done justice to the person my sister was, nor have I adequately expressed what she meant to me (nothing new for this shy little brother). But in her honor, I say to anyone that reads this, beware what you expect tomorrow to bring, and hold tight everything you love today. There is no sadder phrase than, "too late."
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Monday, September 30, 2013
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
"Aujourd'hui Maman Est Morte"
I remember reading that first line of Albert Camus's The Stranger in French class years ago in high school. Tasked with translating a section of the book, I immediately got to work: I went to the library and took out the English version. While this was obviously cheating, I don't regret it because, instead of seeing a small piece of the book through the dirty lens of my poor French reading ability, I was able to consume the entire book in a couple hours. A difficult, challenging work, it opened my mind to a school of thought well outside my small town experience. The protagonist Meursault, a true anti-hero, is in many aspects a deplorable character, and not someone to emulate. However, Camus used his experiences and actions to explore the role of man in the universe. I was enthralled.
I'm not a scholar of French literature, and this is not going to be a treatise on the philosophy of Camus. But on this inauspicious day when my own mother has died, I recall one detail of the book: Meursault's eventual downfall was partially caused by his inability to "properly" mourn his mother.
But what is the right way to react to such an immense loss? Tears and outward emotion are a typical response, but, much like my mother, I take no comfort in tears. (Stoic always, I don't recall having ever seen her cry.) Instead, because I'm a writer, I will put down in words what an amazing woman she was, and how difficult were her struggles.
Some of the earliest memories of my mother were of her hugging me while wearing her blue bathrobe, enveloping me in warmth. What I felt in those moments has echoed in my memories over the years, leaving an ache of nostalgia. Ma always made me feel loved and supported, something that never changed throughout my life. However, the manner of that love and support would evolve with the coming of darker times.
My father was an alcoholic (something I wrote about several years ago). I won't go into details about that here, but I will say that when my mother no longer felt that I was safe in our home, she sent me to live with my grandmother, Nan. This was a blessing and relief for me. I spent my high school years living with Nan in a happy home, loved and supported by yet another amazing woman. I could go on with wonderful stories about her, but here are just a few: because I hated breakfast food, she would cook me a hamburger before school; because she was concerned about the rareness of the deli beef she used to make my lunches, she would fry it in a pan before deeming it fit to be in a sandwich; and when I needed reprimanding, she wouldn't hesitate to twist my ear, pulling me down to her height to read me the riot act.
As good as this change was for me, I learned over time how difficult it was for my mother. She sent me away to give me a better life, but always felt that she let me down because of it. Back at home, with my father not working but still drinking away our savings, Ma started to work at a laundromat for minimum wage. Always petite, she lifted bags of hotel laundry half her weight all day long. I still remember when she visited us at Nan's farm how red and cracked her fingers were from constant exposure to bleach. Through all this hard work, and despite my father, my mother managed to keep the house. This lessen in the value of hard work would always stay with me.
Because of financial struggles, my mother was unable to contribute any money for my college education, once again feeling that she let me down. I managed to get a scholarship to go to school in Boston, and did my best to convey to her that, despite her inability to assist me financially, her love and support had allowed me to focus and work hard enough to earn the scholarship. She would continue to insist that my successes were due to my hard work alone, but she deserves much of the credit.
Far more valuable than money was the role my mother would fill as I attended college and then went into the work force and adult life. Wise and patient, she would give me constant advice and voice her confidence in my abilities. There was no challenge or struggle that a quick call to my mother wouldn't improve. I'm sure one of the most difficult things I'll go through in the coming days and weeks is wanting Ma's advice and realizing that it's lost forever.
I wish I could focus on all the wonderful things about my mother, but I would be remiss if I failed to mention the hardships she endured. Life with my father was thankless and difficult, and those years took a toll on her. But she held onto her home and endured until my father's death during my freshman year in college.
However, even after his passing, my mother struggled with anxiety that made her hesitant to leave home. I don't know if this was because of my father, or an innate condition, but it kept her from getting out into the world. There were many things that she wanted to see, and many people she wanted to visit, but she couldn't bring herself to travel. Someone from a younger generation would seek medical help for this, but my mother was from a different time, and did what she always did instead: struggled on using only her strength.
I know this anxiety created a distance between her and others that assumed disinterest or selfishness prevented visits or attendance at functions. Despite her great unease, she called on her strength to make it to my wedding, her first stay in a hotel. I could see how anxious she was, but I will always remember the comfort I felt having her sleep in the bed next to mine the night before the wedding. And the next day, we danced to this song, and while I never saw her cry, her eyes did well up. One of my favorite memories.
I'm not a person to have regrets, but I have always regretted not being able to help Ma with her anxiety. She missed out on so many things she wanted to do, and often felt lonely while stuck in the mental prison that kept her in her home. I wish I could have helped others understand her struggle better, and I'll have to live with my failure to do more.
The beginning of the end was a lung cancer diagnosis, leading to long months of decline and pain. I won't talk much of this, as I'd rather expunge it from my mind as much as I can. But I will say that I was able to share my heart with her and left nothing unsaid at the time of her passing. My mom, stoic to the end, proclaimed, "Let's not get sentimental" as I told her of how much she had done for me and how much I loved her.
I refuse to let the last thing I write about be hardship and struggle. I know Ma found happiness in her children and their children, something she had difficulty conveying but could be heard with the right kind of ears. She also brought a little bit of the world she wanted to see into her home, starting a menagerie of tropical fish that came from all the oceans she would never visit. She enjoyed expanding her collection and would watch the fish for hours on end. Ma would excitedly talk about them during every visit, especially when she was able to breed the fish and raise babies. That's how I choose to remember her: happy and excited, with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.
With the right kind of eyes, my love for my mother can be read in the words I wrote. But I will eschew subtlety to proudly proclaim that I love my mother dearly, to the utmost capacity of my heart. She was a remarkable woman, and despite her struggles, was always there for me when I needed her. She loved me completely and unconditionally. I couldn't have asked for a better mother, and I hope that Camus is wrong and that I will see her again one day.
I'm not a scholar of French literature, and this is not going to be a treatise on the philosophy of Camus. But on this inauspicious day when my own mother has died, I recall one detail of the book: Meursault's eventual downfall was partially caused by his inability to "properly" mourn his mother.
But what is the right way to react to such an immense loss? Tears and outward emotion are a typical response, but, much like my mother, I take no comfort in tears. (Stoic always, I don't recall having ever seen her cry.) Instead, because I'm a writer, I will put down in words what an amazing woman she was, and how difficult were her struggles.
Some of the earliest memories of my mother were of her hugging me while wearing her blue bathrobe, enveloping me in warmth. What I felt in those moments has echoed in my memories over the years, leaving an ache of nostalgia. Ma always made me feel loved and supported, something that never changed throughout my life. However, the manner of that love and support would evolve with the coming of darker times.
My father was an alcoholic (something I wrote about several years ago). I won't go into details about that here, but I will say that when my mother no longer felt that I was safe in our home, she sent me to live with my grandmother, Nan. This was a blessing and relief for me. I spent my high school years living with Nan in a happy home, loved and supported by yet another amazing woman. I could go on with wonderful stories about her, but here are just a few: because I hated breakfast food, she would cook me a hamburger before school; because she was concerned about the rareness of the deli beef she used to make my lunches, she would fry it in a pan before deeming it fit to be in a sandwich; and when I needed reprimanding, she wouldn't hesitate to twist my ear, pulling me down to her height to read me the riot act.
As good as this change was for me, I learned over time how difficult it was for my mother. She sent me away to give me a better life, but always felt that she let me down because of it. Back at home, with my father not working but still drinking away our savings, Ma started to work at a laundromat for minimum wage. Always petite, she lifted bags of hotel laundry half her weight all day long. I still remember when she visited us at Nan's farm how red and cracked her fingers were from constant exposure to bleach. Through all this hard work, and despite my father, my mother managed to keep the house. This lessen in the value of hard work would always stay with me.
Because of financial struggles, my mother was unable to contribute any money for my college education, once again feeling that she let me down. I managed to get a scholarship to go to school in Boston, and did my best to convey to her that, despite her inability to assist me financially, her love and support had allowed me to focus and work hard enough to earn the scholarship. She would continue to insist that my successes were due to my hard work alone, but she deserves much of the credit.
Far more valuable than money was the role my mother would fill as I attended college and then went into the work force and adult life. Wise and patient, she would give me constant advice and voice her confidence in my abilities. There was no challenge or struggle that a quick call to my mother wouldn't improve. I'm sure one of the most difficult things I'll go through in the coming days and weeks is wanting Ma's advice and realizing that it's lost forever.
I wish I could focus on all the wonderful things about my mother, but I would be remiss if I failed to mention the hardships she endured. Life with my father was thankless and difficult, and those years took a toll on her. But she held onto her home and endured until my father's death during my freshman year in college.
However, even after his passing, my mother struggled with anxiety that made her hesitant to leave home. I don't know if this was because of my father, or an innate condition, but it kept her from getting out into the world. There were many things that she wanted to see, and many people she wanted to visit, but she couldn't bring herself to travel. Someone from a younger generation would seek medical help for this, but my mother was from a different time, and did what she always did instead: struggled on using only her strength.
I know this anxiety created a distance between her and others that assumed disinterest or selfishness prevented visits or attendance at functions. Despite her great unease, she called on her strength to make it to my wedding, her first stay in a hotel. I could see how anxious she was, but I will always remember the comfort I felt having her sleep in the bed next to mine the night before the wedding. And the next day, we danced to this song, and while I never saw her cry, her eyes did well up. One of my favorite memories.
I'm not a person to have regrets, but I have always regretted not being able to help Ma with her anxiety. She missed out on so many things she wanted to do, and often felt lonely while stuck in the mental prison that kept her in her home. I wish I could have helped others understand her struggle better, and I'll have to live with my failure to do more.
The beginning of the end was a lung cancer diagnosis, leading to long months of decline and pain. I won't talk much of this, as I'd rather expunge it from my mind as much as I can. But I will say that I was able to share my heart with her and left nothing unsaid at the time of her passing. My mom, stoic to the end, proclaimed, "Let's not get sentimental" as I told her of how much she had done for me and how much I loved her.
I refuse to let the last thing I write about be hardship and struggle. I know Ma found happiness in her children and their children, something she had difficulty conveying but could be heard with the right kind of ears. She also brought a little bit of the world she wanted to see into her home, starting a menagerie of tropical fish that came from all the oceans she would never visit. She enjoyed expanding her collection and would watch the fish for hours on end. Ma would excitedly talk about them during every visit, especially when she was able to breed the fish and raise babies. That's how I choose to remember her: happy and excited, with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.
With the right kind of eyes, my love for my mother can be read in the words I wrote. But I will eschew subtlety to proudly proclaim that I love my mother dearly, to the utmost capacity of my heart. She was a remarkable woman, and despite her struggles, was always there for me when I needed her. She loved me completely and unconditionally. I couldn't have asked for a better mother, and I hope that Camus is wrong and that I will see her again one day.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Life of a Code Monkey
It happens at every party. I'm chatting with someone I just met, and he asks me what I do for a living. (It's always a he, women don't talk to me at parties.) I tell him I'm a computer programmer, and his eyes glaze over. For however long I decide to talk about my profession, he'll nod at the right times, and make the occasional "mmm" of interest, but he's checked out, judging at what point it would no longer be rude to talk to someone else.
This doesn't bother me, because if you're not part of the club, software development is a boring jumble of jargon and acronyms. Also, as essential as computers are, no one wants to know how they work. They're like cars: as long as they get us where we're going, we don't give a shit about what's under the hood.
But I've decided to explain the life of a code monkey, and you might just find it interesting if you come along for the ride. This will be no party patter full of vague pleasantries, this will be the straight dope. So just step right this way.
The most important thing I have to say about the software industry is that I love the former and hate the latter. Software can be exhilarating. It can even be artful, if you're not afraid to look under the hood. But just like any art form, it must be translated into a monetary value if you plan to eat. That means art becomes a business, and business is the domain of businessmen. For businessmen, there is no art, just products and profits. Welcome to the industry.
But for a moment, let's hold the beasts at bay and live in a code monkey utopia. For someone who really cares about software, how you build something is just as important and what you build. For the end user, it can be very hard to tell how well a piece of software is constructed. Certainly, if a program doesn't work properly and is filled with bugs, it's easy to measure its quality. But two developers could produce two programs that, in the user's eye, are identical. Yet one of them may be a masterwork crafted by a talented artisan, while the other is held together by duct tape and is just sufficient enough to earn a paycheck.
In a short period, this difference may not matter to the user, but if he has to live with an evolving piece of software over time, the difference will become apparent. Every change that is made will lead to many problems in poor software. In good software, the changes have much less effect and are much quicker to implement. When another code monkey comes along to maintain a product, he will curse the paycheck collector and praise the artisan. (Briefly, before complaining how much better it could have been done. More on that in a second.)
So for a software artisan, there is a passion to deliver what a user needs, and lay the groundwork for what will be one day needed. This will be done in as simple a manner as possible, but no simpler. It will be fairly easy to understand (compared to other code, at least) and it will be elegant. It will feature the latest ideas and patterns from the thriving community of other passionate programmers. For the layman, it will just be a piece of software that will be cursed when it doesn't do things as well as expected, and taken for granted otherwise. For a code monkey, it will be art.
Chasing this grail of great code is an intoxicating process. When I'm in the zone with no distractions, time disappears. The world fades away, and there's only the code emerging before me and the endless battle of making the computer concede to my whims. Suddenly I'll realize that the day is almost done and I haven't even had lunch yet. Anyone who has thrown himself into art of any sort will know this experience.
I wanted us to stay in my little code monkey utopia for a while. I was hoping the visit would last until the inevitable arrival of the suits. I could keep talking about the joy of making great software, the rush of struggling with a problem for hours to finally solve it, or the glorious feeling when a fellow code monkey looks at your work with awe. But the clouds have come, and the rain is starting to fall.
The price of chasing the software grail is the never-ending need for scholarship. The fundamentals of development evolve constantly, and how to apply them changes even more rapidly. Best practices and patterns have to be followed on an almost daily basis to stay current. Imagine being a writer and having to buy a new dictionary every few years because the current one just doesn't apply anymore. Imagine awaking from a ten-year coma to find you can't even read your favorite author's latest work. Such is the life of a code monkey.
Another problem is that even before we have to submit our creations to the product machine, we code monkeys have to co-exist. To keep the contrast going with writing, imagine writing a novel with ten other people. How far would you get before things would end so very badly. Even if you agreed to an over-arching plot and who would write which chapters, the fact is that disparate parts have to make sense as a whole. That means a lot of communication and compromise. And code monkeys, like any artists, have plenty of pride and ego.
Throw in a few writers who are just there for the sweet writer paycheck (okay, the analogy breaks down here, but let's move on), and suddenly you may feel like Cormac McCarthy writing the conclusion of a story that Dan Brown began and features a middle section contributed by Stephanie Meyer. (And if you're a fan of either writer, I'm very sorry, on many levels.) Even worse, imagine you have to add content between those writers. On a good day, you'll think you put Cormac's prose to shame, and on a bad one, you'll feels as if you abuse the English language even worse than Dan and Stephanie combined.
Despite these challenges, software can still come together in greatness, and despite all the brotherly fights amongst code monkeys, there's still mutual respect. If the only challenge was to deliver great software, developers could work together well enough to achieve that goal.
But software has to be sold. Which means it has to be done before someone else does the same thing. And even if you finish first, if someone else makes it cheaper or better later, you have to react or be put out of business.
There's the b word. Let's begin our descent into darkness.
I mentioned that, on a superficial level, code of vastly different quality can look the same. Better quality takes time, and time is money. That means that the quicker software is built, the happier the businessmen are. While poor code will be more expensive in the long run, and will potentially alienate users (now called "clients" in business parlance), to many profit-driven minds, the equation is simply that money now is better than money later.
Before I paint too bleak a picture, I can't say that every sales-oriented person in the software industry is short-sighted and greedy. There are many people who "get it" and understand the big picture. Some even respect the art of software.
But software has to be sold for software to be made. Someone has to sell it. That means the good guys have to compete with the slimiest, most dishonest jerk at the sleaziest company that ever managed to stay in business long enough to shit out some software (or at least promise to one day shit out software.)
Thus, the life of a code monkey is building something in the time frame that was promised in order to make a sale. To go back to the writing analogy one more time, imagine getting a call from your agent that you have to write a 500 page teenage vampire novel in four weeks. (Insert your own Stephanie Meyer joke here.)
So in that situation, what does a code monkey do? That's the hard reality of being a software developer. We care. We want to make art, but we also have to make a product. So we do our jobs the best we can, balancing what was sold with what we yearn to make. We deliver a book that's half the expected length in twice the promised time. We stick to the theme, but do our best to make it a meaningful, worthwhile creation. The client grumbles about the disparity between promise and product, but is satisfied in the end.
The result may be flawed, but damn it, it is art.
This doesn't bother me, because if you're not part of the club, software development is a boring jumble of jargon and acronyms. Also, as essential as computers are, no one wants to know how they work. They're like cars: as long as they get us where we're going, we don't give a shit about what's under the hood.
But I've decided to explain the life of a code monkey, and you might just find it interesting if you come along for the ride. This will be no party patter full of vague pleasantries, this will be the straight dope. So just step right this way.
The most important thing I have to say about the software industry is that I love the former and hate the latter. Software can be exhilarating. It can even be artful, if you're not afraid to look under the hood. But just like any art form, it must be translated into a monetary value if you plan to eat. That means art becomes a business, and business is the domain of businessmen. For businessmen, there is no art, just products and profits. Welcome to the industry.
But for a moment, let's hold the beasts at bay and live in a code monkey utopia. For someone who really cares about software, how you build something is just as important and what you build. For the end user, it can be very hard to tell how well a piece of software is constructed. Certainly, if a program doesn't work properly and is filled with bugs, it's easy to measure its quality. But two developers could produce two programs that, in the user's eye, are identical. Yet one of them may be a masterwork crafted by a talented artisan, while the other is held together by duct tape and is just sufficient enough to earn a paycheck.
In a short period, this difference may not matter to the user, but if he has to live with an evolving piece of software over time, the difference will become apparent. Every change that is made will lead to many problems in poor software. In good software, the changes have much less effect and are much quicker to implement. When another code monkey comes along to maintain a product, he will curse the paycheck collector and praise the artisan. (Briefly, before complaining how much better it could have been done. More on that in a second.)
So for a software artisan, there is a passion to deliver what a user needs, and lay the groundwork for what will be one day needed. This will be done in as simple a manner as possible, but no simpler. It will be fairly easy to understand (compared to other code, at least) and it will be elegant. It will feature the latest ideas and patterns from the thriving community of other passionate programmers. For the layman, it will just be a piece of software that will be cursed when it doesn't do things as well as expected, and taken for granted otherwise. For a code monkey, it will be art.
Chasing this grail of great code is an intoxicating process. When I'm in the zone with no distractions, time disappears. The world fades away, and there's only the code emerging before me and the endless battle of making the computer concede to my whims. Suddenly I'll realize that the day is almost done and I haven't even had lunch yet. Anyone who has thrown himself into art of any sort will know this experience.
I wanted us to stay in my little code monkey utopia for a while. I was hoping the visit would last until the inevitable arrival of the suits. I could keep talking about the joy of making great software, the rush of struggling with a problem for hours to finally solve it, or the glorious feeling when a fellow code monkey looks at your work with awe. But the clouds have come, and the rain is starting to fall.
The price of chasing the software grail is the never-ending need for scholarship. The fundamentals of development evolve constantly, and how to apply them changes even more rapidly. Best practices and patterns have to be followed on an almost daily basis to stay current. Imagine being a writer and having to buy a new dictionary every few years because the current one just doesn't apply anymore. Imagine awaking from a ten-year coma to find you can't even read your favorite author's latest work. Such is the life of a code monkey.
Another problem is that even before we have to submit our creations to the product machine, we code monkeys have to co-exist. To keep the contrast going with writing, imagine writing a novel with ten other people. How far would you get before things would end so very badly. Even if you agreed to an over-arching plot and who would write which chapters, the fact is that disparate parts have to make sense as a whole. That means a lot of communication and compromise. And code monkeys, like any artists, have plenty of pride and ego.
Throw in a few writers who are just there for the sweet writer paycheck (okay, the analogy breaks down here, but let's move on), and suddenly you may feel like Cormac McCarthy writing the conclusion of a story that Dan Brown began and features a middle section contributed by Stephanie Meyer. (And if you're a fan of either writer, I'm very sorry, on many levels.) Even worse, imagine you have to add content between those writers. On a good day, you'll think you put Cormac's prose to shame, and on a bad one, you'll feels as if you abuse the English language even worse than Dan and Stephanie combined.
Despite these challenges, software can still come together in greatness, and despite all the brotherly fights amongst code monkeys, there's still mutual respect. If the only challenge was to deliver great software, developers could work together well enough to achieve that goal.
But software has to be sold. Which means it has to be done before someone else does the same thing. And even if you finish first, if someone else makes it cheaper or better later, you have to react or be put out of business.
There's the b word. Let's begin our descent into darkness.
I mentioned that, on a superficial level, code of vastly different quality can look the same. Better quality takes time, and time is money. That means that the quicker software is built, the happier the businessmen are. While poor code will be more expensive in the long run, and will potentially alienate users (now called "clients" in business parlance), to many profit-driven minds, the equation is simply that money now is better than money later.
Before I paint too bleak a picture, I can't say that every sales-oriented person in the software industry is short-sighted and greedy. There are many people who "get it" and understand the big picture. Some even respect the art of software.
But software has to be sold for software to be made. Someone has to sell it. That means the good guys have to compete with the slimiest, most dishonest jerk at the sleaziest company that ever managed to stay in business long enough to shit out some software (or at least promise to one day shit out software.)
Thus, the life of a code monkey is building something in the time frame that was promised in order to make a sale. To go back to the writing analogy one more time, imagine getting a call from your agent that you have to write a 500 page teenage vampire novel in four weeks. (Insert your own Stephanie Meyer joke here.)
So in that situation, what does a code monkey do? That's the hard reality of being a software developer. We care. We want to make art, but we also have to make a product. So we do our jobs the best we can, balancing what was sold with what we yearn to make. We deliver a book that's half the expected length in twice the promised time. We stick to the theme, but do our best to make it a meaningful, worthwhile creation. The client grumbles about the disparity between promise and product, but is satisfied in the end.
The result may be flawed, but damn it, it is art.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
In the Middle of a Proverbial Marathon/We're Out of Control
Hello, my name is Mike. I'm still fat.
We'll, I'm decidedly less fat. Over the last three months, I've lost 32 lbs. I'm eating fairly well, and I'm getting a decent amount of exercise. The metrics all sound good (and we recovering tubbos love metrics): weight down from 252 to 220; waist went from crammed into a 38 to a comfy 36; neck from 19 down to 17.5. Even better, I've actually added muscle, so it's a much healthier 220 then when I hit it on the way up.
I take a lot of pride in what I've accomplished so far. I can see the difference in the mirror and I'm happy about it. People comment on how thin I am. Its enough to give me a big old warm and fuzzy.
But the fact still remains: I'm overweight. My BMI has crossed over from "obese" to "overweight." That is a good thing, but to hit what is considered healthy weight for my height, I need to get down to 184. And yes, BMI is just a rough measure and not an exact science, but I wager it's not that far off when it tells me I have to lose 36 more pounds. Maybe when I hit 195 and I look in the mirror, I'll see something worthy of being called a physique, with little extra flab and healthy muscle tone.
That is the future. For now, the battle continues. And really, when that day comes, nothing much will change. I'll eat a few more calories, but still eat healthy food. I'll continue to get a decent amount of exercise. A few indulgences will probably be allowed. But this a marathon that doesn't end; I'll be a recovering tubbo no matter how long I'm a healthy weight.
Okay, so this has all been pretty dull so far. Fat guy has lost some weight. It was a struggle, but he's succeeding. Let's all feel good about the human spirit. The audience applauds, the credits roll.
Here's the thing: I've had a lot of time to think (especially during all those workouts, when the only other things to think are either this sucks so bad, am I insane? or bored bored bored bored bored BORED! ), and I've come to a conclusion.
We're out of control.
You may be way ahead of me on this one. Truth be told, I've had my suspicions for a long time. But the evidence keeps mounting.
How many ways are we out of control? Too many to count. But here are a few examples:
We consume without concern for consequences or cost. We sell our souls to corporations to get shiny toys and tasty treats, and we don't care who gets hurt or what things they do to shave costs and drive up profits. We look to talking heads that shill hate and outrage, and cause further division and create problems instead of solving them. We let the purity of faith become corrupted with prejudice and intolerance. We allow ourselves to believe that we have to choose between left and right, when the real choice is between regular people and those that want to take advantage of them. We're happy as long as we have big TVs and iPods and sports and beer. We sweat in the winter and freeze in the summer. We look for others to blame, and absolve ourselves from guilt. We eat sentient beings when we have humane options. We reproduce without any thought to how the world will be able to hold us all. We trade fulfillment for material comforts. We say the right things, but we don't mean them.
And, as Thoreau would say, we lead lives of quiet desperation.
Okay, I admit that rant was a bit excessive, but I believe it's mostly true. And this is where it all comes back to losing weight.
I made a huge effort to improve myself in one area I've always struggled with, but there's so many more things that need to be fixed. I could make a list, but my rant hit on many of them.
In the end, the only hope for all of us if we accept that we are all constant works in progress, and that we must keep struggling towards becoming our ideal selves. We may differ in our view of what that is, but I have to believe that for the vast majority of us, it would be a very positive thing. Throw in a healthy dose of tolerance and acceptance, and we could all get along in our new enlightened state. And for those that would strive to become beings motivated by hate and greed, to quote an old song, "get off my cloud."
And as they crept off my cumulus, I'd also say to the back of their heads, to quote another song, "what's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding?"
P.S. I'm not really that much of a dreaming idealist. We're going to stay out of control for the foreseeable future. If I've learned anything about humanity, we'll keep going with our bad habits until we have our toes dangling over the edge of the abyss. Then we'll kick a rock over to see how far the fall is before we decide to turn around. We're all fucking nuts!
We'll, I'm decidedly less fat. Over the last three months, I've lost 32 lbs. I'm eating fairly well, and I'm getting a decent amount of exercise. The metrics all sound good (and we recovering tubbos love metrics): weight down from 252 to 220; waist went from crammed into a 38 to a comfy 36; neck from 19 down to 17.5. Even better, I've actually added muscle, so it's a much healthier 220 then when I hit it on the way up.
I take a lot of pride in what I've accomplished so far. I can see the difference in the mirror and I'm happy about it. People comment on how thin I am. Its enough to give me a big old warm and fuzzy.
But the fact still remains: I'm overweight. My BMI has crossed over from "obese" to "overweight." That is a good thing, but to hit what is considered healthy weight for my height, I need to get down to 184. And yes, BMI is just a rough measure and not an exact science, but I wager it's not that far off when it tells me I have to lose 36 more pounds. Maybe when I hit 195 and I look in the mirror, I'll see something worthy of being called a physique, with little extra flab and healthy muscle tone.
That is the future. For now, the battle continues. And really, when that day comes, nothing much will change. I'll eat a few more calories, but still eat healthy food. I'll continue to get a decent amount of exercise. A few indulgences will probably be allowed. But this a marathon that doesn't end; I'll be a recovering tubbo no matter how long I'm a healthy weight.
Okay, so this has all been pretty dull so far. Fat guy has lost some weight. It was a struggle, but he's succeeding. Let's all feel good about the human spirit. The audience applauds, the credits roll.
Here's the thing: I've had a lot of time to think (especially during all those workouts, when the only other things to think are either this sucks so bad, am I insane? or bored bored bored bored bored BORED! ), and I've come to a conclusion.
We're out of control.
You may be way ahead of me on this one. Truth be told, I've had my suspicions for a long time. But the evidence keeps mounting.
How many ways are we out of control? Too many to count. But here are a few examples:
We consume without concern for consequences or cost. We sell our souls to corporations to get shiny toys and tasty treats, and we don't care who gets hurt or what things they do to shave costs and drive up profits. We look to talking heads that shill hate and outrage, and cause further division and create problems instead of solving them. We let the purity of faith become corrupted with prejudice and intolerance. We allow ourselves to believe that we have to choose between left and right, when the real choice is between regular people and those that want to take advantage of them. We're happy as long as we have big TVs and iPods and sports and beer. We sweat in the winter and freeze in the summer. We look for others to blame, and absolve ourselves from guilt. We eat sentient beings when we have humane options. We reproduce without any thought to how the world will be able to hold us all. We trade fulfillment for material comforts. We say the right things, but we don't mean them.
And, as Thoreau would say, we lead lives of quiet desperation.
Okay, I admit that rant was a bit excessive, but I believe it's mostly true. And this is where it all comes back to losing weight.
I made a huge effort to improve myself in one area I've always struggled with, but there's so many more things that need to be fixed. I could make a list, but my rant hit on many of them.
In the end, the only hope for all of us if we accept that we are all constant works in progress, and that we must keep struggling towards becoming our ideal selves. We may differ in our view of what that is, but I have to believe that for the vast majority of us, it would be a very positive thing. Throw in a healthy dose of tolerance and acceptance, and we could all get along in our new enlightened state. And for those that would strive to become beings motivated by hate and greed, to quote an old song, "get off my cloud."
And as they crept off my cumulus, I'd also say to the back of their heads, to quote another song, "what's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding?"
P.S. I'm not really that much of a dreaming idealist. We're going to stay out of control for the foreseeable future. If I've learned anything about humanity, we'll keep going with our bad habits until we have our toes dangling over the edge of the abyss. Then we'll kick a rock over to see how far the fall is before we decide to turn around. We're all fucking nuts!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Random Thoughts Interspersed with Song Lyrics
The poets down here
Don't write nothing at all,
They just stand back and let it all be.
-- Bruce Springsteen, "Jungleland"
I've never been interested in blogging about what I ate for lunch, what celebrity died last week, what's the hottest thing on reality TV, etc. The problem is when you cut out the noise, how much signal is left? Often, not too much.
By the way, I tried quinoa for the first time today. Isn't that exciting? (I'm not making that up. It's real, I swear.)
We're too young to fall asleep,
Too cynical to speak.
We are losing it,
Can't you tell?
-- Radiohead, "My Iron Lung"
One thing worth mentioning is that in last six weeks I've made a serious effort to eat better and exercise. The results have been very good thus far: 17 pounds lost. Considering I started at 252, I still have a ways to go. At six feet tall, I'm aiming to get down to 185, but I'll settle for under 200.
The remarkable thing is that it's been much easier this time around. I cut the soda, improved my diet to get rid of junk and eat healthier, less processed foods, and workout four to five times a week. I've tried this before, and it always eventually failed, but this time it's been almost easy.
Love of mine,
Someday you will die.
But I'll be close behind,
I'll follow you into the dark.
-- Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark"
Some credit goes to new tools at my disposal. I've followed the South Beach Diet (which is more science than quackery, from what I can discern) and have used EA Active on the Wii to keep me motivated to follow a workout schedule. While these have helped, the real key is my own mortality.
I'm a lot of things, but I'm not stupid. Those 12 teaspoons of sugar per can of soda and all the fat from burgers and fries was setting the scene for mid-life drama. Heart attacks and diabetes were a when, not an if.
I still don't know what I was waiting for,
And my time was running wild,
A million dead-end streets.
Every time I thought I'd got it made,
It seemed the taste was not so sweet.
-- David Bowie, "Changes"
When I was in my 20s, I always felt there was time to turn things around before health problems caught up with me. Suddenly, I was approaching mid 30s and carrying a large spare tire (I'm guessing tractor-sized) and had a very bad Coke habit (the beverage, not the drug, I swear.) And that why it's sticking this time. I don't want to keel over at 40, or live with self-induced health issues. And I don't what to curse my youthful bravado in my senior years.
Now, I'm not one of those self-delusional types. I didn't think I was big-boned, or that it was all really muscle and not fat. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the belly hanging. My BMI puts me at obese. But now that I've gotten down to 235, it's been sobering how many people comment on my weigh lost. I was so fat that in comparison, I now look comparatively skinny. This is frightening, and reinforces the need to fight on.
Always felt like giving in
To the feeling I can't win.
But I took it on the chin.
Now I'm finally cashing in.
...
My losing streak is done.
I said my losing streak is done.
-- eels, "Losing Streak"
When I put before and after pics of my first six weeks side by side (no, you can't see them,) I see a bit of difference, but I also remember what I used to look like in those long ago days when I was in shape. (It's true, I swear. I was 185 at one point in college and went to the gym daily.)
I still have a long way to go, but this time, I feel like it's going to stick. I'm going to make it.
"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
-- Simon and Garfunkel, "America"
Now that I'm getting my ass in gear on the weight front, I want to keep up the good mojo in other areas. I'm going to do my best to write more. I have a great story idea burning in my head (called "The Healer," but don't tell anyone I told you.)
Writing is, and most likely will always be, incredibly difficult for me. Yet, I'm like a moth drawn to the flame. If I don't keep trying, something vital will be lost, and there will be an emptiness I feel that will never be filled. It may never be filled, but I have to keep trying.
If you're not going to keep trying to do the things that matter, why go on living?
You've heard my latest record,
It's been on the radio.
Ah, it took me years to write it,
They were the best years of my life.
It was a beautiful song.
But it ran too long.
If you're gonna have a hit,
You gotta make it fit--
So they cut it down to 3:05.
-- Billy Joel, "The Entertainer"
In the end, one thing I have to accept is that my artistic impulses don't take a direction that heads toward mainstream appeal. I mean just look at this blog post. Random lyrics all over the place, and in red???
"A little self-indulgent, don't you think, jackass?" you ask. I nod gravely.
But this is part of the equation for me. No compromises, no committees, no marketing plans. I don't want to make a product, I want to make art. And I'd much rather have a drawer full of terrible art than terrible products. There's at least poetry in being a failed artist, even if it's bad poetry.
I ran my mouth off a bit too much, oh what did I say?
Well you just laughed it off, it was all OK.
-- Modest Mouse, "Float On"
In short, I'm going to find more things to say more often, so keep your eyes peeled.
It's true, I swear.
Don't write nothing at all,
They just stand back and let it all be.
-- Bruce Springsteen, "Jungleland"
I've never been interested in blogging about what I ate for lunch, what celebrity died last week, what's the hottest thing on reality TV, etc. The problem is when you cut out the noise, how much signal is left? Often, not too much.
By the way, I tried quinoa for the first time today. Isn't that exciting? (I'm not making that up. It's real, I swear.)
We're too young to fall asleep,
Too cynical to speak.
We are losing it,
Can't you tell?
-- Radiohead, "My Iron Lung"
One thing worth mentioning is that in last six weeks I've made a serious effort to eat better and exercise. The results have been very good thus far: 17 pounds lost. Considering I started at 252, I still have a ways to go. At six feet tall, I'm aiming to get down to 185, but I'll settle for under 200.
The remarkable thing is that it's been much easier this time around. I cut the soda, improved my diet to get rid of junk and eat healthier, less processed foods, and workout four to five times a week. I've tried this before, and it always eventually failed, but this time it's been almost easy.
Love of mine,
Someday you will die.
But I'll be close behind,
I'll follow you into the dark.
-- Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark"
Some credit goes to new tools at my disposal. I've followed the South Beach Diet (which is more science than quackery, from what I can discern) and have used EA Active on the Wii to keep me motivated to follow a workout schedule. While these have helped, the real key is my own mortality.
I'm a lot of things, but I'm not stupid. Those 12 teaspoons of sugar per can of soda and all the fat from burgers and fries was setting the scene for mid-life drama. Heart attacks and diabetes were a when, not an if.
I still don't know what I was waiting for,
And my time was running wild,
A million dead-end streets.
Every time I thought I'd got it made,
It seemed the taste was not so sweet.
-- David Bowie, "Changes"
When I was in my 20s, I always felt there was time to turn things around before health problems caught up with me. Suddenly, I was approaching mid 30s and carrying a large spare tire (I'm guessing tractor-sized) and had a very bad Coke habit (the beverage, not the drug, I swear.) And that why it's sticking this time. I don't want to keel over at 40, or live with self-induced health issues. And I don't what to curse my youthful bravado in my senior years.
Now, I'm not one of those self-delusional types. I didn't think I was big-boned, or that it was all really muscle and not fat. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the belly hanging. My BMI puts me at obese. But now that I've gotten down to 235, it's been sobering how many people comment on my weigh lost. I was so fat that in comparison, I now look comparatively skinny. This is frightening, and reinforces the need to fight on.
Always felt like giving in
To the feeling I can't win.
But I took it on the chin.
Now I'm finally cashing in.
...
My losing streak is done.
I said my losing streak is done.
-- eels, "Losing Streak"
When I put before and after pics of my first six weeks side by side (no, you can't see them,) I see a bit of difference, but I also remember what I used to look like in those long ago days when I was in shape. (It's true, I swear. I was 185 at one point in college and went to the gym daily.)
I still have a long way to go, but this time, I feel like it's going to stick. I'm going to make it.
"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
-- Simon and Garfunkel, "America"
Now that I'm getting my ass in gear on the weight front, I want to keep up the good mojo in other areas. I'm going to do my best to write more. I have a great story idea burning in my head (called "The Healer," but don't tell anyone I told you.)
Writing is, and most likely will always be, incredibly difficult for me. Yet, I'm like a moth drawn to the flame. If I don't keep trying, something vital will be lost, and there will be an emptiness I feel that will never be filled. It may never be filled, but I have to keep trying.
If you're not going to keep trying to do the things that matter, why go on living?
You've heard my latest record,
It's been on the radio.
Ah, it took me years to write it,
They were the best years of my life.
It was a beautiful song.
But it ran too long.
If you're gonna have a hit,
You gotta make it fit--
So they cut it down to 3:05.
-- Billy Joel, "The Entertainer"
In the end, one thing I have to accept is that my artistic impulses don't take a direction that heads toward mainstream appeal. I mean just look at this blog post. Random lyrics all over the place, and in red???
"A little self-indulgent, don't you think, jackass?" you ask. I nod gravely.
But this is part of the equation for me. No compromises, no committees, no marketing plans. I don't want to make a product, I want to make art. And I'd much rather have a drawer full of terrible art than terrible products. There's at least poetry in being a failed artist, even if it's bad poetry.
I ran my mouth off a bit too much, oh what did I say?
Well you just laughed it off, it was all OK.
-- Modest Mouse, "Float On"
In short, I'm going to find more things to say more often, so keep your eyes peeled.
It's true, I swear.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The True Face Behind Many Masks
The most unsettling aspect for me of this modern age of social networking is that it removes the context of interaction. We all wear different masks in different situations, may even seem like completely different people. But when we lose those contexts on Facebook, Twitter, and blogs, do we remove all those masks and reveal our true selves, or do we instead adopt a one-size-fits-all persona, constructed to be the most comfortable for us regardless of audience?
This leads to even thornier question: who am I really? Which person is me? Husband, software developer, friend, family member, artist, loner. Each is subtly different (ok, maybe not so subtly different in some cases). Am I somehow all these things? This doesn't seem possible at first. However, I do think that I really am all these things, that I'm not "faking it" in certain situations, because the context is so important. When I'm at my work, I feel confident that I can perform my job and be a leader for my team. As an artist, I struggle with anxiety about the difficult questions of life. I can have contradictory feelings because I'm feeling them about different things.
What does that mean for a blog? I think it means that depending on the topic, different aspects of my personality will come out. Since my goal is to discuss art and life more than software development, you will see the artistic side of me more. I'll be more introspective, anxious, and moody. In other words, an artist. This makes sense since, frankly, the "get it done" side of my personality that comes out when there's a job to be done has no patience for rambling rants, instead preferring action.
Beyond all this, there is still an invisible wall that each of us have. For some, we may hide much more behind it than others. This is the place we keep our innermost feelings, and our history of hurts and weaknesses. I have in my life made a big transition. Much more is outside this wall than it once was. However, the artist in me wants to share more. (If you don't want to share parts of yourself, do you really want to be an artist?)
So, if you're willing to come along with me, you'll get a chance to know things that I have largely kept secret. There are some topics I'd like to one day discuss if I find the strength and confidence. And find the trust in the big scary world that lives on the side of the Internet. (You're all good, caring people, right?)
I'll give you a brief peek behind the wall. Some things I may one day write about: my father's alcoholism; my grandmother's death; a medical condition that causes chronic pain; and of course, gobs of insecurity, guilt, and occasional depression.
Lest you think this blog will be nothing but a drag, I'm still a world class smart-ass and can even be witty on occasion. And I will have art to share: fiction, poetry, and music. So stick around and see what happens.
I'm dying to know myself.
This leads to even thornier question: who am I really? Which person is me? Husband, software developer, friend, family member, artist, loner. Each is subtly different (ok, maybe not so subtly different in some cases). Am I somehow all these things? This doesn't seem possible at first. However, I do think that I really am all these things, that I'm not "faking it" in certain situations, because the context is so important. When I'm at my work, I feel confident that I can perform my job and be a leader for my team. As an artist, I struggle with anxiety about the difficult questions of life. I can have contradictory feelings because I'm feeling them about different things.
What does that mean for a blog? I think it means that depending on the topic, different aspects of my personality will come out. Since my goal is to discuss art and life more than software development, you will see the artistic side of me more. I'll be more introspective, anxious, and moody. In other words, an artist. This makes sense since, frankly, the "get it done" side of my personality that comes out when there's a job to be done has no patience for rambling rants, instead preferring action.
Beyond all this, there is still an invisible wall that each of us have. For some, we may hide much more behind it than others. This is the place we keep our innermost feelings, and our history of hurts and weaknesses. I have in my life made a big transition. Much more is outside this wall than it once was. However, the artist in me wants to share more. (If you don't want to share parts of yourself, do you really want to be an artist?)
So, if you're willing to come along with me, you'll get a chance to know things that I have largely kept secret. There are some topics I'd like to one day discuss if I find the strength and confidence. And find the trust in the big scary world that lives on the side of the Internet. (You're all good, caring people, right?)
I'll give you a brief peek behind the wall. Some things I may one day write about: my father's alcoholism; my grandmother's death; a medical condition that causes chronic pain; and of course, gobs of insecurity, guilt, and occasional depression.
Lest you think this blog will be nothing but a drag, I'm still a world class smart-ass and can even be witty on occasion. And I will have art to share: fiction, poetry, and music. So stick around and see what happens.
I'm dying to know myself.
Posts
