October 17. Summer travels: Auto: Santa Fe Del Idaho Los Angeles Hawaii Reno Michigan New Orleans June through September, I was out of town 10.
October 19. As I walked the three miles to work this morning, I encountered three characters, people I would not have noticed through my car windows.
The first was an angry man, shouting, "I'll kill you, m**f**, shoot you!" over and over again. He had a bandanna on his head, dirty clothes, beard. Obviously agitated and presumably mentally unbalanced, he walked with a purposeful gait, glancing behind himself every few minutes, looking for his pursuers (including me, walking behind him). He seemed fearful, yet at the same time angry and threatening, like some small bug, instinctively putting on a show, but ready to run for his life should things get out of hand. He finally settled in beneath the freeway overpass, between the two bridges, where he could shout his epithets toward the sky and waive his fists at the passing, unseen cars, whose noise almost drowned him out. I passed quickly by him and he hurled his abuses toward me. Fearful as I was, it would have surprised me even more if the man had moved from his now secure lair underneath the bridge.
The second person to stand out was a man pushing a shopping cart with two large tires in it, not that unusual; but his companions were: three dogs, two German shepherds and a black dog of a similar size. He referred to his dogs as his "boys" and waited on a street corner, pending a break in the traffic, then, like a boy scout leader, said, "All right. Come on, boys!"
The last was a middle aged man in black pants and white shirt, walking toward me on the sidewalk. He sang softly to himself, though not that softly, and he seemed as if he had been drinking.
Three individuals I might or might not have seen from the car, none of whom I would have remembered, each of whom confronted me on my walk. The first I prayed for, asking God to give him peace; the second I laughed at; and the third, I suspiciously eyed, wondering what trouble would come from a man halfway drunk at in the morning, singing a sad song softly, feeling slightly sorry for himself.
October 27. Over a year ago, I did very well with the theory that I should write at least an hour every day. I started to write, had an idea, and continued throughout the year, producing my book, Self Conscious, which I subtitled "Essays on Memory and Meaning." I'm not exactly sure what my motivation was in writing what amounts to my autobiography, probably a search for meaning, using memories as the clues, to discern who I really am and what do I really want out of life. As I put my shoes on yesterday, I wondered what my next step should be. The beauty of Self Conscious was being able perform my investigation without leaving my writing desk.
The thought that occurred to me yesterday was that my next focus should be on finding a way to make a living (that sounds so much better than "make money") at writing, so that I am not a slave to the legal profession. To be precise, I thought yesterday that I ought now to think how to write something that will make a million dollars.
This morning a more interesting thought occurred to me. Writing my book had the same effect on my relationship to law as law clerking did to law school. Law clerking opened my eyes to a much larger, more exciting and prosperous world than the law student's. School became boring. Since I stopped working on my book, law once again seems uninteresting. When I was working on my book, I was rushing, trying to keep up with work and writing, always behind and trying to catch up. When I finished, all I had left was work. The practice of law did not seem to have anything I cared to do. I still fit in, of course, and do so marvelously, but my interest is really a front. I operate on fear and guilt, and the need for money. I do still like to solve things, to figure out how to put the deals together; but I feel out of place among those who are motivated by business success. I want meaning not success.
October 31. Memorandum to all Jones, Jones, Close & Brown Partners from Michael E. Buckley
For several years, I have talked about a sabbatical, taking a year off of work to pursue travel and other interests with my family. In May, I will have been with the firm for sixteen years as a practicing lawyer, over twelve as a partner. The time has come and I propose to take a leave of absence from Jones, Jones, Close & Brown for approximately one year, commencing in June of 1991.
Cathy and I have not established definitive plans, other than that we will move to England for the academic year 1991-1992, somewhere near London, and, as school vacations permit, travel through Europe. (Some of you may know that in 1958-59, my parents made a similar journey with their six children; it is a year I have never forgotten.) Our four children will be 10, 9, 7 1/2 and 3, ages at which most of them will, I hope, be able to remember their year abroad, as I have. With the ongoing changes in central and eastern Europe, and the beginning of the new European community in 1992, our timing is splendid.
My specific plans are indefinite. I enjoy writing. I have written a book of autobiographical essays over the past year and intend to spend time writing. I am not a victim of "burn out" or similar ailments. This is not a hurried decision; I have had this goal, a year off, for many years, and the reality is that, unless I do it now, I will in all likelihood be sitting at this same desk for another ten years, talking about a sabbatical and wishing we had gone. I am prepared for disappointment and boredom, but excitement and a fresh attitude, as well.
As a stockholder, director and employee, I have obligations to the firm and all of you. By the same token, however, I have accrued certain rights. I wish my year off to be taken with as little disruption and loss to the firm as possible. I remain a member of this firm; my loyalties are to this firm, with which I have spent my entire legal career. It is therefore important to me, not only that my leave of absence be accomplished in a positive light, but that the value of our equity interests in the firm be preserved. Pat C. is well able to run the "department." I envision being accessible by fax.
From the practical side of things, I will need a continuation of some level of salary. As I see it, there are two ways this can be accomplished. First the firm could inaugurate a sabbatical program for long time partners (obviously I encourage such a proposal!). Alternatively, think of it as early retirement: payment of a reduced salary could be with a corresponding reduction of the salary continuation to which each partner is entitled on retirement. Middle grounds exist, e.g., a combination sabbatical pay with some salary continuation. Reduction of my salary continuation account should also be subject to my being able to replenish it in the future if I so elect. If I did not come back (always a possibility, I suspect, in a sabbatical) any sabbatical pay could be converted to "buy out" consideration.
I am serious about this decision, and I intend to follow it through. There is no real hurry, but I would like to address these issues in the near future.
November 2. It is a cold and blustery day. As I awoke this morning I almost let out a "hip hip hooray" at the turn in the weather. If one can become depressed at never seeing the sun, one can also become bored with day after day of nice warm weather.
Thinking more about England
I read in the paper this morning that Las Vegas
November 5. Cool, sunny. Forecast calls for ominous, deteriorating conditions.
Talking with Jon J. about my planned sabbatical; one of the hardest things to do, because I know he does not relate at all. Barbara M. says, "Well you'll have to do something important, like write a book." This occurred following our discussion at book club of Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
November 6. Election Day. Cold, scattered clouds, breezy. It must be that I get my inspiration from nature. It is not the headlines (though I try) that dominate my writing. It is "the feeling I get, when I look to the west" (Led Zeppelin). Just now, sitting, looking out to the west from my seventh floor window: spaciousness, beautiful colors, activity (freeway), imaginings (clouds and sky, homes below). I've moved my keyboard and am sitting at my credenza with the world outside just above my peripheral vision. The wind is blowing from the northwest today. It is always a cold wind from the north this time of year.
I told someone at book club the other night that I was retracing the footsteps of T.S. Eliot
November 9. Will K. came in yesterday and responded positively to my sabbatical proposal. I really hadn't thought how he would respond, but when I saw the message that he wanted to see me, I ignored it (I was busy), and was actually nervous that he would say, "No way!" and I know he is very persuasive. So I was more than a little surprised when he came in all upbeat saying I should get my full salary, etc.! This thing is sort of snowballing, and I really need to focus on the important issues.
November 19. I was sick last week and went to bed early on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights. By Thursday, I couldn't sleep and just lay in bed thinking about things, trying to be poetic. I recalled how there have been times when I just wanted to reach out and grab a memory, to be part of a golden time (though, of course, it is only golden when viewed from the certainty of my existence and prosperity in the future-present). I wondered if there is something that exists now, in the present, which has as strong an attraction to me as the past. When I think of Flintridge, Malibu , England Spain
What, then, in the present can compare to such perfect pleasure?
The only answer that occurs to me is natural beauty: a sunset, a flower, a landscape; each has similar pleasure and beauty and is similarly unpossessable. I can only gaze at the sunset, marveling at its beauty, conscious of its rapid changes, knowing that if I take my eye off of it for a moment it may well be gone, dissolved to shades of gray and dusky charcoal. While a landscape does not often dissolve into darkness, it changes with tiny bits of motion and light, passing sometimes quickly through the window of a car or plane. I suppose I could actually eat a flower and be at one with it, but its taste is not what I aspire to possess. Its beauty is what I want; a combination of its color, its form, its fragrance, its life.
The ocean, lakes and rivers, perhaps even rain, might even be closer to the greatest experience of beauty. Like a landscape or a sunset, the beauty of water depends greatly on the quality of light: fog, gun-metal gray haze, bright sunshine, sunset, moonlight. Yet, there is more, the sense of life: the abundant life that lives in the water and the life that gathers around the water, to feed off of the bounty. There is also the idea of water and its uses, powers and beauties; it satisfies thirst and sustains life. One can even submerge oneself totally into water and be thrown about by its power. (To be carried by the ocean surf in a sense is to be moved by the moon!) One is warmed and cooled by liquid water. The water I'm thinking of is also clean, with no entanglements; sometimes there's seaweed on the shore, but mostly there is nice clean sand.
What is the connection between memory and natural beauty? I see that a specific kind of beauty (untouchable) appeals the most to me, perhaps that untouchability is itself an element of beauty. I see also the importance to me of my relationship with the ocean, which retains its present identity virtually unchanged from its identity in the past.
November 21. The day before Thanksgiving, which is early this year. Clear, cool, almost cold.
The thought occurred to me, as I was listening to something by Aaron Copland on his 90th birthday, that I at last know what it means to be a romantic: someone who longs for something he can never achieve. There was a longing in the music, a desire that came across to me, which seemed incapable of fulfillment. There is a difference between a dreamer and a romantic. I can dream of becoming a writer and I can become a writer. I can dream of a vacation at the beach and I can go there. On the other hand, if I am a romantic, I will want to be a writer whose books will tell the truth and make everyone love one another. I might dream of watching a beautiful sunset from the coast of Maui, but I am a romantic if I think there is meaning and beauty in the sunset that I can discover and possess.
Is there a difference between wanting to tell the truth and being a good story teller or a good BS'er? BS is not necessarily a lie, there may be a greater truth in the BS. Suppose someone tells me he goes to work at six in the morning. To me that means , to someone else that might mean any of the 60 minutes before . There is a general truth in the statement, namely, that this person gets up early and goes to work, while many of us are still snug in our beds. Surely it is more interesting to hear someone say, "I go to work at " (Response: "My, aren't you industrious!") than hearing that same person say, "I go to work between six and seven." Upon hearing the more acceptable "seven," I would be less inclined to remember the hour and the effort of work. A good story teller, then, is not necessarily a good historian.
Unfortunately, perhaps, I am more of a historian, a teller of truth or, as Madeleine L'Engle says (we were reading A Wrinkle in Time last night), "straight forward." How does this bode for my story telling ability? Not well! I might make a good reporter. It is easier for me to write descriptions and analysis than narrations.
November 26. At my desk in the windowless but private attic. Today is a blustery day. The temperatures have been ranging in the 70's during the day to the low 40's at night, a 30 degree change every day! Low 60's today. Yesterday evening a warm breeze came out of the south at about four and the temperature picked up by ten degrees. At , when I called the time and temperature, it was 68, compared to the low 50's and high 40's the day before.
Today the wind is more from the northeast and the feeling is all different. Yesterday evening reminded me of the Santa Ana winds; today it's just a cold desert day. Last night I thought of September and warm fall days in Southern California ; today I think of ski season in the mountains. Sometimes the wind sounds like the tide, rushing through the air, like the sound of waves breaking on the shore. There is more rhythm in the ocean than in the wind, but the power and the energy in each is purely awesome.
My father says he's hoping/thinking I will write a best seller while we're away. It is certainly a hope of mine, which includes a hope that, in becoming the teller of truth, I would be free from practicing law.
November 28. How long do I suppose I can keep producing wonderful little gems of thought in this notebook? Doesn't it make sense that 80-95% of what I write is unimportant? Even so, there are the therapeutic aspects of this journal.
As I look back to my spiritual -- if not crisis -- needs, which seemed so strong six months ago, I see that it occurred following the "end" of my book. I had written of my life and concluded the discussion. Where was I to go at that point? I sought my life's highest level. I banged on the door and did not get anywhere, other than perhaps a wave from the 32nd floor above, someone leaning out the window saying, "Hang on! We'll see you in a bit, just be patient," perhaps forgetting how difficult it is to live the true, just and good life in this world.
Last Sunday was the feast of Christ the King, the last Sunday of the Church year. This Sunday is the first Sunday of Advent. I was thinking at mass that now is the time for New Year's resolutions, rather than waiting for January. I have met professional, career goals; now does seem to be a good time to leave, a time to take stock, set goals for the second half of life, which, unlike the mostly educational first half, is largely uncharted.
Goals:
1. Come up with at least two ideas for books, preferably three, at least one of which must be a story, a fiction. Next year at this time be in the process of writing the books.
2. "Cohese" my first book and get it out for publication or rejection.
3. Move to England USA
4. Work on a book of at least twenty poems with polished meter.
5. Write one children's story.
6. Keep good notes on our year for writing a book afterward. Keep an eye out for detail.
7. Work out a reading list for 1991.
8. Work hard at learning French, polish up on Spanish; practice reading in these languages and in Latin as well.
9. Figure out with Cathy what we will do in England
December 3. Upstairs bedroom, sunny, nice morning. Thinking about a story. Idea: boy/man thinks he is onto something big, thinks he has a place in the world, can literally feel it ready to burst forth, yet it never does. Is he happy or not? (A short book like Siddhartha or Mr. Blue.)
December 10. Strange comfort the City! Just thinking, I am trapped: on the one side is work, with its consequent rewards (and spiritual dissatisfaction); on the other side is writing, with its satisfaction but with definite lack of monetary rewards!
December 11. Cloudy morning, haze settled in the pockets of the valley.
Looking at the stall in the bathroom at work, someone on the pot, pants on the ground, reminded me of that great scene in All Quiet on the Western Front, the comradeship of the soldiers sitting on the cans (literally) out in the fields behind the lines. Made me think that I am always writing of things that are not touchable: sunsets, clouds, smells, memories, in contrast to the sharing of experiences and the ability to touch and feel the experience of a seat on a can with your friends. But is there really a difference? The soldiers are sharing their fears and enjoyment of relaxation; my feelings are not shared person to person, but person to nature and person to past self.
December 19. It is a very windy 48 degrees, I can barely make out the mountains to the west.
I awakened this morning at as the wind, which had been predicted for today at 30-40 mph, made its entrance into the valley, or at least our backyard.
The winter wind: Indications are that something is in the air, something coming; then, like a blustery relative, all of a sudden he or she walks in the door, throws the hat and coat onto the love seat and immediately begins a tirade about the journey here: it's night, the mountains seem higher every year, the town has grown so much, the earth scuffed so many places that the dust is worse than ever, the smog, etc. etc. And when the excitement of the first entrance is over, we settle in for a nice long visit, a good hard blow on a cold December day, with our friend, one we will see often in the months ahead.
December 22. Saturday. The kitchen. All is quiet in the house. Robert went to bed early but coughed all night. Mara and Britanny went to sleep after midnight. Thomas not much earlier.
The wind that blew in Wednesday brought the cold and it remains very cold. Yesterday it did not get much above 35. I grow weary of saying it, but the desert is really an amazing place: imagine a place with a temperature range of 0 (or lower) to 120!
The sun is not yet up, but the days will now begin to very slowly lengthen. They will not seem much longer, but in the knowledge that they grow longer lies a seed of hope. I would not hurry spring or summer one second, I will savor winter and all of my thick, warm clothes as long as I can; but I will be enticed and lured into smug happiness, not with warm days, but the warm nights of April and May, until, before I realize what's happened I'm trapped in the oven of summer. But not in 1991! Which brings me to my second (and main) point.
Last summer, I emotionally experienced something that can only be described as a very real sense of my impending death. I worried night and day about a little lump on my back, a blackhead as it turned out! I tried living with my fear, forgetting it, learning to love it, whatever; no matter how I tried forgetting it, the thought of my impending mortality returned. I thought constantly of my life in terms of my eternal destiny and my relationship with God. Knowing, as I did, that I was dying, would shortly be dead, I tried to concentrate on my relationship with God to the exclusion of this world, but I couldn't do it. Instead I found myself torn apart by the twin claims of this world and the next. And then, just like that, it seemed, I only had a pimple and my joy, if controlled, was great at learning that I would not be dying immediately, at least not to my knowledge. But I did grow from my seeming brush with death. I felt what it would be like to be dying, and my life experience, my wisdom (for which I have often prayed), was more complete as a result of my experience.
As I thought of this last night I thought that there must be other experiences in life, basic experiences, that I had not known, but that, were I able to experience them, would also enhance my wisdom and knowledge, and, perhaps, my courage as well, by learning about the foes with which we battle. The first things I thought of were hunger, disease and starvation, but I quickly realized that these were physical enemies with which I would not and could not safely take on on a whim. Then it occurred to me that there was a formidable foe which I had heard about, but about which I had never really learned much, and that was failure. I have never known any significant failures in my life, though I think I have been terrified of it as long as I can remember. In school, the thought of a "C" was scary.
This leads me to think of our trip to England.
It seems to me that failure is something I may very well learn in England
Perhaps the possibility of failure may even be the very essence of what our trip is about.
Clearly I will be writing in England
The real failure I have to face is the failure of not knowing what to write or not being able to write what I think I want to write. In the past I knew that if I just set my mind to something and studied or worked hard I would be able to compete and to succeed. Writing seems different, creative writing that is; as bad as my poetry may be, I can't always write it, most times the ideas or the sounds do not come to mind in a way that satisfies me. Perhaps that's because there is no time and one needs lots of time, or perhaps the talent or the urges are just not there. The more likely answer is that I have too many ideas and am not learned enough in the craft to be able to filter out the good from the bad. I have never approached poetry or writing as things from which I could learn, but as pieces to enjoy. Next year I will have no excuses as far as time goes, I will have to confront the beast, as the saying goes, or, as it might be said in A Wrinkle in Time, simply name the beast, and the beast, if not failure, may be the fact that I am not the poet and writer I think I am.
This debate and confrontation will be taking place throughout the coming year and there will be more to it (or less) as the time goes on. It may never end: failure or success depend largely on how one defines them, of course. I am already a failed writer. The sabbatical holds out the tantalizing prospect that with enough time and devotion that failure can turn to success. What I am doing next year will be taking a safety net away, the safety net of no time to really try.
(The year abroad will be a success, there is no doubt about that. We will return, each of us, with new insights and new experiences that will always remain with us.)
The fire has been crackling as I have been writing. The sun is well up. Despite the black gloominess at , the day is now lovely and sunny, though still terribly cold. I fed the birds as well, and the sparrows and the finches are busily at work. I have yet to see any robins, but I was surprised to see a mockingbird this morning on the block wall and then another nearby, and, I thought, another. I have never seen mockingbirds except on their own. I have, it seems, missed the sounds of the local mockingbirds. Whether they have moved or whether I simply work longer hours, I can't say.
December 27. Pretty orange and blue sunset tonight, like a picture I remember on the side of an orange crate: oranges and blue California
Looking out at the sunset and the city lights from the seventh floor window, I wonder if perhaps I have made a mistake thinking that we should live in the countryside in England Las Vegas
The end of December was extremely cold that year, and carried over to January. Pipes froze and burst, houses were flooded, carpets ruined. Lawns and sidewalks froze. I dropped our two year old on his head when I lost my balance on an icy sidewalk on New Year's Day. Yet above all of this our attention was firmly held on the Runnin' Rebels. We anxiously awaited Coach Tarkanian 's assessment of his team after every game. We watched with awe as they demolished each victim that came their way: Larry Johnson, Stacey Augmon, Greg Anthony, Anderson Hunt and George Ackles (together with substitute Elmore Spencer sometimes together known as "Spackles").
I have been reviewing a contract with the federal government that includes all the clauses mandated by government regulation: affirmative action for Vietnam Vets, antitrust clauses, methods of resolving disputes, compliance with OSHA, equal opportunity, affirmative action for handicapped workers, clause about contingent fees, no benefits for members of Congress. How can the government ever keep up with all of its own rules? Do we think the government can keep up with all evils?
The word "fabric" is used a lot in the context of morality. It would be better for our government to work on upholding and encouraging the right moral fabric. Perhaps that is what socialism is, the idea that the government will try and protect, foster and care for people. There must be something other than law to keep us all working together as decent human beings. An article appeared today in The Wall Street Journal: the United States South Africa England
On Sunday there was an article in the paper about a sniper who had shot into a school bus, killing a high school basketball player, a young girl. Senseless, senseless!! What kind of society brings such things out? What is wrong with our system? Obviously the laws and the incarceration do not stop these things. What should the next step be? Back to basics, as my mother would say.
January 8. Warming, lots of blue sky. My faith in our trip has borne me through so far. Reality now begins to bear down on me with the massive number of details I must master. Where will we live? Where will the children go to school? How do we afford the whole thing? Should we go straight to England Ireland Spain Eurail Pass
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