Snake in the...Huh?

Not that I'm setting out to do a series on pesky critters...but here's another tale. Some of you have heard it before, but I was recently reminded of the circumstances, so I'm agonna tell it again.

My last job before I hitched up the wagon (read: mini-van full of books, instruments, and cats) to head out west (read: Fort Collins, Colorado) was as a computer support tech for a small state college nestled in the Vermont hills. We maintained the computer labs, set up PCs for faculty and staff, and provided helpdesk support for students and employees alike. It was a fun job, for the most part. We certainly kept busy, and...well, let's just say academia's reputation for eccentricity isn't entirely unearned, or at least it wasn't there. Quite a few interesting characters and situations.

The campus itself is a hodgepodge of some pretty distinct "characters" as well, architecturally speaking. The core of the main building was originally the estate of the first president of the American Telephone and Telegraph Company, and is classic brick (and as I recall, was rumored to be haunted, at least in parts, by a certain past college president). Other buildings were spliced to it over the years: for example, a theater, a student center, and a concrete and glass monstrosity (my opinion only) of a "modern" library, built in the 70s. It includes an outdoor staircase made up of steps too short (in height) and too deep for anyone to maneuver without looking like a drunken gimp.

The campus also encompasses a few old farmhouses. The alumni relations department was--at least when I was there--situated in one such house: desk and printers and file cabinets packed in willy nilly through what had once been foyer, dining room, etc. Not exactly ideal modern office space, but it had its cozy charms. They did have to get a little creative when it came to stringing network and power cables around, especially since for the most part the furniture wasn't made for computers either, but they made it work.

One day I was on helpdesk duty, and a call came in from one of the alumni relations gals. They were trying to hook up speakers to one of their computers in order to watch a training video, but couldn't get any sound to come out. I ran through your usual basic troubleshooting, but to no avail. So I opened a ticket and headed up for a first-hand look. (Ah, the luxury of doing on-site support!)

When I got up to the house, I first did what any self-respecting tech would do: went to check if the speakers were actually plugged in correctly. I traced the cable down into a messy wad beneath the desk and was giving it some gentle tugs to help figure out where it was going when...one of the other cables moved. And not because I'd pulled it. And then it put out a bright-eyed little head and flicked a forked tongue at me.

Now...I realize garter snakes are helpful critters and all that. I realize they aren't exactly major threats. When I was a kid, we'd actually go off and search for garter snakes on purpose, turning over logs and seeking out the places they liked to sun themselves. We were pretty good at catching them, holding them right behind the head so they couldn't flick around and bite. Thus safely restrained, it was fascinating to feel the softness of their back scales, their armored underbellies. (I'm sure this was much more enjoyable for us than for the snakes.) I did get bitten a few times, but the bites were rarely worse than a needle stick--albeit a needle stick that Completely Freaked Mom Out.

Point is, they didn't really alarm me as a kid. However, somewhere along the line a sort of latent instinct (irrational but uncontrollable) activated itself, and now...the adrenaline kicks in before my brain can even fully identify "snake!!!" So when the "cable" revealed its true identity, I let out something between a whimper and a yelp and in about two seconds flat had propelled myself up onto the nearest chair.

Apparently this instinctual reaction to snakes isn't an isolated case. When I chair jumped, heads came up throughout the front rooms, and the instant I stammeringly made known the situation, I had company atop the furniture. A conference ensued. "You catch it and throw it out." "No, you do it." Ultimately one of us called someone from maintenance to come deal with the problem, and we did the best we could until his arrival.

This, I could mention, is something never accounted for in books. In fairy tales, when the princess is awaiting rescue from the dragon, the focus of the story is always on the action: the prince riding across league after league of hostile wasteland as he comes to her aid. No one ever details the awkward small talk of the rescuees and how they handled the tension of waiting. Someone should provide more guidance, srsly.

But eventually our prince arrived, in the form of a bemused middle-aged maintenance guy. He retrieved the snake (all scant 12 inches of it) and threw it outside.

And there was much rejoicing.

And then I fixed the sound issue (a driver or some such thing, I believe), and headed back to the office, where (it being a small and gossip-prone campus) news of my exploits had already spread. You'd think I'd get some credit for doing my duty in hazardous circumstances, but noooo. For the rest of my time there, I could count on the occasional not-quite-innocently-asked, "So, seen any snakes lately?" *shudder*

On the other hand, I imagine it was an even more alarming day for the snake...

Are You Good Enough?

A rose I drew awhile back, and almost immediately hid from public

 view, because it's...shoddy. But you know? Shoddy is OK.

This post by Stephanie of Rhodia Drive really struck a chord with me:
Art Making is Accessible to Everyone

I am afraid to mess up. More than that: I am afraid of being found inadequate. In many ways, I've always felt like this. While my brothers happily doodled away as kids, I would set the bar impossibly high, and give up in frustration when I couldn't reach it.

To some extent, I've gotten past this in writing and music--especially music. Yes, I do have moments of frustration. I wish I'd started younger. I wish I was more consistent. I wish certain aspects came to me more intuitively. But I enjoy music within my own limitations, with full knowledge that I'm never going to reach stratospheric greatness.

Writing can be a little more challenging. There are times when I wonder why I work at it at all, because I will never be able to write in the ways some of my favorite authors write. I don't have Vernor Vinge's scientific mind, therefore "I can't write." I don't have Ralph McInerny's grasp of theology and knowledge of academia, therefore "I can't write." I've never suffered extreme poverty or pain, I've not traveled to exotic places, I've not done x, therefore "I can't write."

Getting beyond that, to find my own voice, to accept my own style...this is difficult. But, at least on an intellectual level, I know "all God's creatures got a place in the choir." I'm not, for example, Gene Wolfe. But neither is David McCullough. Neither is Elizabeth Berg or Terry Pratchett, or Jasper Fforde, or Elizabeth Moon, or a multitude of other authors (or casual bloggers) I've enjoyed. Some writers create extravagant and scientifically perfect worlds. Some expose, through meticulous research, a particular period in history. Some simply make you laugh. Some help you to see plain old folks just a little more clearly. Somewhere in that spectrum, there may just be room for me. It may not always be the room I'd prefer at given moments, but...there's room.

Art--as in visual art--has been more challenging still. And I think it may well be key to overcoming what is really a false sort of pride: this fear not even of complete failure, but merely inadequacy. Because it's OK to create art for fun. It's OK to create art imperfectly. It's OK to create art with no larger purpose than simply creating art: for the joy and childlike wonder of exploring artistic expression.

I like this quote from the post on Rhodia Drive. "...they learn to be OK with the quality of their expressions and do it anyway. This was my path. I wanted to make art and so I did."

Too Much

Some reflections, partially drawn from my recent brief blog hiatus (the virtual type-in dragged me back...;)

A luddite repents

Well...sort of.

I wonder sometimes if mine is the last generation to cling to the physical, to struggle with the reality of digital possessions. We stand on the brink; we more than any other generation have seen the old physical-media world give way before the bits and bytes and virtual spaces of the new - and may sometimes feel we don't fully belong to either one. We're just old enough to remember when LPs were something you could buy new in the store rather than a quirky anachronism, but we're young enough to remember how cool and exciting it was when first CDs and then MP3s arrived on the scene. We were the first to embrace digital formats for music and movies, but still struggle with all the changes that have taken place in our lifetimes.

This year, my younger brother used his tax return to really dive head first into modernity. Until a few months ago, they were still on dial-up, using a PC that was already somewhat long in the tooth when it was given to them four or five years ago. Now they have DSL, a laptop with HDMI out, and a basic LCD TV. When I last visited, the little gals were watching a streamed version of "Follow that Bird," and the topic of conversation for the adults turned to how media of the future might be bought and sold and stored.

I was a little taken aback and made thoughtful by the fact that digital copies were seen as more secure and enduring than the older, physical mediums. And they do have a point. I can back up my whole music collections in multiple locations, on-site and off, with no degradation. The digital copies will never get scratched or burnt or have apple juice spilled in their innards. They won't fade, crack, warp or tear. There is something to that, though I struggle with the concept of ownership of something I can't touch, can't stack on a shelf to look at or spread out on the table. I feel funny saying, "I own that album," or "I have that book," when I have no physical proof, no way to put my hand on what I possess. And while the digital is, in truth, more readily accessibly from anywhere and at any time - no worries about whether I left my notebook at home today or that CD in the car player - it still feels insubstantial, something that could be taken from my at any moment. I'm reminded of a short story I read as a teenager. (And if this rings any bells for you, let me know - I've been struggling to find it ever since!) It portrayed a future world where everyone lived essentially inside a huge machine, everyone in separate capsules, all interaction taking place through the machine, all physical needs, all entertainment desires provided for by The Machine...until the day it breaks down, and everything is lost, and no one can escape. What happens if one day we lose access to our computers and all stored on them? What happens to our books, music, movies, correspondence, if it solely exists outside the physical realm?

I suspect the younger generation doesn't feel this same lack of faith in the digital, the virtual. Perhaps I'm of the last generation that will. And in the past six months or so, I've been reminded that the solid and real can't always be depended on either. Good friends of mine lost their home and all their belongings in a house fire. It makes you think. I have several near-full novels that are strictly in paper form, and while I was of course aware that catastrophes do happen, I still was more inclined to think, "Well, at least I have hard copy, so it's not like it's going to be accidentally deleted..."

Where am I going with all this? I guess my first point is that both digital and analog have their strengths, and we shouldn't embrace just one or the other. And my second point is that I have a very hard time embracing something I can't fully grasp. I wonder if this will ever change, or if we will always feel a wistful nostalgia for the tools of past ages, things that could be held and touched and which made a real mark on the physical world. It's a hard thing to let go of.

Edit: Is it irony that I wrote the above in the notebook I'm always forgetting at home, and only then transcribed it for posting?