Principle of Least Action, Hurricane, etc.

by Eric Chaet

I

Linda, behind the counter, joined in the conversation among us men, to whom she'd served our coffee, toast & eggs, or oatmeal. Grizzly was offended (I realized later), when he tried to interrupt—I held a hand up, signaling him to hold his thought, while I listened to her story.

Linda's from a northwoods town, must have been a young blond beauty, now older, stocky, gray, after decades of service behind bars & counters here among the dairy farmers & paper-plant workers.

When she got married, she was saying, she & her husband took his convertible, on their honeymoon, into Chicago, to visit Linda's sister & her husband & young son. The husband worked at a pancake house by the Blackstone Theater—did I know it? she asked me, knowing I was raised on the South Side of Chicago. (Several times, Linda has privately shared with me her difficulty in keeping from scolding some of her customers, for making racist remarks.) Linda's husband drove himself, Linda, & the nephew downtown, to the pancake house, but before they'd got out of the car, Linda saw a very big Black man approaching them.

"Spook!" the nephew yelled, cheerfully.

Linda crouched down, practically to the floor, thinking, "Oh, God, we're going to get killed!"

But it turned out that the boy knew the Black man, that he worked with his father, that Spook was the name he went by.

Linda also told about this same sister, later in life, living in the Arctic Circle, where the husband was working on the Alaskan oil pipeline, waiting with her son for the school bus, with a pistol, to protect them from wolves.

As I drove thru the brutal but bright cold morning, into Fort Harrison—big plumes, clouds of thick smoke from the power plants & factories along the river, at 45-degree angles in the north wind—to buy a roller (you have to buy a package of 2) to replace one in the garage door frame that's about to fail, I was thinking about Linda, where she's from, her sister in Chicago & Alaska, & my life, where I started, my years drifting back & forth across the country—either from job to job, or hitchhiking, then these last couple of decades operating here, where no one else was doing anything like I was doing.

And how I hoped, in my remaining time—about 25 productive years left, with luck—to continue to be a productive artist, an author whether recognized by anyone in New York or not, more successful commercially if I could swing it, & always with greater influence if possible—plus developing equivalent abilities & impact as citizen, trader, & engineer—a new formulation.

I have fewer years to go, almost surely, than I have gone—& much further to go than I have so far gone. Maybe not going back & forth so much will help.

Making money is like fishing: you need to bait lines—of various sorts—& put them in the water. A realization I've come to late in life, believing when I was younger that the money would come as a side-effect of my contributing my best, without actually focusing on it—while so many competitors were focusing on nothing else.

Regarding this fishing for money: best to prioritize among the opportunities, but, that's hard for me. In any case, at least do what you'd also enjoy doing, rather than procrastinate forever—& get it out to where (& in a way) it might bring money back. If you prioritize, you'd mainly do it by the amount of return possible. But you'd factor in what you'd likely actually do; & what you'd most likely procrastinate, & never finish.

Circling back from the hardware store with the roller for the garage door, I went to Van Leuwenhoek's, our grocery store, run by two friendly brothers, Al & Tom. Al looks just like the founder, his grandfather, in a blown-up photo over the meat counter. The grandfather is a clean-cut young man in the photo, cheerfully chopping meat off the bones of an ancient carcass, his bright white apron somewhat blood-splattered.

The check-out woman, Betty, one of my friends, was wearing—on her shirt, below one shoulder, like a brooch—a little horizontal oval made of wood, maybe of the bark of a tree, maybe an eighth of an inch thick, an inch long max, by less than half an inch, with an outdoor scene—a tree, a field, sky—painted on it. I suppose there was a safety pin or something similar super-glued to the back.

I said, "That's nice, where did you get it?"

Betty—a bird-watcher, like me—said that another of the people who work in the store, Karen—I'm friendly with Karen, too—gave it to her for Christmas.

I said, "That's something my wife would like, that I wouldn't hate."

Then, as I was carrying my sacks of groceries out, there was Karen—probably about 60, like me—I've never seen her anything but radiant. She's always industrious, must have been a stunning beauty in her youth. Wears bright red nail polish, which seems strange with the short-cut gray hair & granny glasses. I asked her about the tiny wooden "brooch."

She said a 90-year-old man in Canada had made it, with a little tiny brush, only a bristle or 2. That she'd bought several, & would bring one she might sell me, of quilts hanging on a line. I'm not eager to buy—but I might, since I hardly ever demonstrate my esteem for my wonderful wife, the Irritable Saint, with something purchased—there being almost nothing I'm willing to purchase but necessities. Wow, I thought, the old guy made something he could sell—from almost nothing at all!

In the evening, the Irritable Saint circles out of her way, on the way home from work, & brings our granddaughter, The Hurricane, home—to give Hurricane's mother, who has given birth to another child—two weeks old, still a tadpole (trying to distinguish what the shapes are thru the blinding light) who is keeping her awake all hours—some relief.

So the evening is a mixture of my trying to gather my thoughts to do some work—I work most of my waking time, tho if I had a supervisor, I might be challenged for wandering around lost or as tho lost, thinking, & calling it work—& surrendering: to watch & share in the caring for The Hurricane, a rewarding duty.

II

Next morning, I'm shoveling snow—not snow-blowing—clearing the driveway of a foot of snow. I want to be sure we can get out, if there should be an emergency, especially with the Hurricane here.

Shoveling rests my worrying, scheming, learning mind. The repetition is useful, the using up of physical energy, ever more efficient use of the shovel, the best bending-over angle, the feel of the muscles, even the twinge in the knee, the sweat on my back & front, the texture & look of the snow, the heft of a shovelful.

About a month ago, I got an email from a friend of a friend, suggesting we co-write a one-man play about Ben Franklin. This friend of a friend is an experienced actor, recently retired from performing, has already co-written another play, & knows of a production company in Stratford, Ontario, site of the Shakespeare Festival & several satellite theaters, that is likely to put on our play about Franklin.

So, I've read The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, lately. What a person Franklin was! An indefatigable businessman, student, prudent, public benefactor via his electrical experiments & conclusions, & also via his creation of a lending library, a philosophical club, an insurance company, a fire-fighting company--not to speak of his work for the Colony of Pennsylvania, then for the infant USA, struggling against the most powerful characters of the world's dominant empire, & the soldiers they sent to whip it back into line.

I've discovered (having researched beyond The Autobiography) that Franklin & Washington were part of a plot—all their adult lives—to extricate the colonies from England's monarchical, aristocratic, & corporate (East India Company) rule—tho declaring independence wasn't conceived of 'til the end, completing the long process begun by the Puritans of the early 1600's, seeing the new continent as a refuge from the religious persecutions, tyrannies, & wars of Europe. And I've been comparing myself & what I've done with my first 60 years, & might yet do with the remainder. And, after The Hurricane & The Irritable Saint were finally asleep, just before I went to sleep, I got an email from my new partner, saying he won't be able to follow thru. That he has learned that he must certify himself as a financial planner in the next 6 months—the livelihood that will replace decades of acting far off-Broadway—& that that will require the time he has left after the time he invests in advising individuals & organizations regarding their financial investments, & spending time with his family.

The 50-year-old House of Infuriating Plumbing, in front of which I'm shoveling, & considering my options—is between 2 small cities, where making toilet paper & cardboard boxes has long been the main industry.

I have an office, & a tiny room with a computer that connects me with various sites where I gather information, & other sites where I occasionally—when I figure something out that I haven't previously understood, which I believe will be of use to others, plus a way to articulate it—publish a story, poem, or essay.

In front of the house is a small snow-covered yard, then an increasingly busy 2-lane highway—tho it's silent & treacherous with ice & snow right now, then the mostly frozen-over Raccoon River, which rolls (beneath the ice) like Time thru the Universe, patrolled sometimes by seagulls, hawks, & an eagle or pair of eagles.

The Raccoon is polluted with PCB's from the paper plants' making of carbonless copying paper, before the effect of PCB's on living reproductive systems was recognized—& some time afterward, too. The Raccoon River Group of environmentalists; the paper companies; agencies of local, state, & federal governments; & the newspapers, play a constant game that is no game of push & shove & propaganda about the future of the river & the poisonous sediment, which, it is said, will take 100 or 1,000 years, I forget which, to degrade.

When I went out with the shovel, The Irritable Saint was feeding the Hurricane, a cute little girl, now one-and-a-half years old, who calls her father Da-y, & calls me Papa (short for Grandpapa). The Hurricane never walks—she runs. She's into entropy: she piles blocks up in a stack—then, with a mad, gleeful chuckle, knocks them over. Recently, she is learning the power of saying "No."

So far, Hurricane's mother & grandmother have agreed that, since I'm so willing to put up with Hurricane's interruptions, & to help out baby-sitting occasionally, I don't have to change diapers. That leaves me free to avoid Hurricane at her most unpleasant, & engage with her when she is most energetic & imaginative. (I soothe her when, weary, she is disconsolate & crying, sometimes, too.) For instance, I'll get on all fours & sneak up on her like a cat, & she'll pretend to be frightened, & run, giggling, to Grandma. Or I'll pretend to chase her down the hall, then, when she turns, pretend to run away from her, taking little steps so I don't outrun her much, while she runs after me, laughing triumphantly.

She loves to watch her moo-ie [movie], a videocassette of moving colorful toys, infants, puppets, fish, & simple cartoons performing brief skits, accompanied by Beethoven & Bach melodies. She loves to take baths. Calls for [ba]nanas and ah-pples. Wants to pick everything up, & never puts it back where it was before she picked it up, then, in a few seconds, lost interest in it. (There are doors shut that would never otherwise be shut, & there's a gate at the top of the stairs, to keep her from falling.) She's growing fast, in size & understanding. Very sweet little person. Filled up a huge void in my wife's life. Enriches mine, too—even if she keeps me from what I planned & hoped to do, much more time than I expected, each time she visits for a few hours, or, especially, when she stays overnight.

When I come in from shoveling, I take the time to reformulate, for the umpteenth time, my plan for myself in my remaining years—always attempting to be comprehensive, yet to state my intent in as few words as possible, so that, until I internalize it, I can quickly refer to it, like a compass.

On my desk calendar, I write down: Artist, Citizen, Engineer, Trader.

That's all I write down, but I'll tell you a little of what it represents:

Artist: I am beginning to gain some fame as an artist, tho not everyone who knows of my work appreciates or even approves of it, & tho it certainly does not pay for itself, let alone for my meals or property tax or likely medical expenses toward the end of my time. (I earn money by doing research, by the project, for businesses & professionals. Almost no overhead, but the projects appear erratically.)

Citizen: There was a time when I was quite active in civil rights & anti-Vietnam War demonstrations—but that was decades ago. Since that time, I've not found myself inclined to join any group's activities. Either they were repulsive activities—like the current USA Administration's foreign policy & disregard of the poor domestically. Or they seemed futile, or even counterproductive. Or simply less valuable than the way I was using my time. Or my situation was so urgently precarious, there was no way I could spare the attention or resources or time. So, in my work, when I was able to get to it, I tried to make as clear as possible what I thought of the situation & how to improve it. (I'm far from satisfied with what I've done along these lines.) But now that I see that the American Revolution succeeded after 150 years of struggle, not a mere 10 or 20 as most of us have been taught & believe, I see that I can get back to work again, realistically—individually, &, likely, sometimes, in concert with others—working for the common wealth, for the prevailing of wisdom, long-term—by particular actions, now.

Engineer: my beloved Irritable Saint would laugh with something like disgust at the thought. She's the one always going to the hardware store & improving the house—from her point of view. (Some of the time, it's only decoration, at the expense of disruption—tho sometimes it's really improved operations. And the appearance really has radically improved, which helps mood, which helps action.) I do necessary maintenance, including most of the cooking, shopping for food, plumbing—which—mainly—she takes for granted. I'm into the principle of least action, toward optimum result. But I have a long way to go yet, both in terms of maintaining what I have, & adapting to radical technological changes that just keep coming. I learned to drive a car late, & to maintain it even later; likewise computers & various programs & sites. I don't use a cell phone. I prefer to avoid snow-blowers & power lawn mowers, because I don't like the noise—it interferes with an excellent form of meditation—& I don't want to interrupt my trajectory to learn to maintain them. Doing so seems to me to violate the efficiency of the principle of least action. But avoiding mastering the equipment that surrounds me isn't efficient either. It constantly involves me in avoidance, which is a nasty habit that I am all too inclined to, anyway.

Trader: another laugh. Almost everyone is better at selling than I am. And since I buy as little as I can—principle of least action—I've not been terribly good at that, either, unwilling to invest the time & attention to locate bargains. But, again, being surrounded by buying & selling—& suffering when I do them poorly, or avoid just to avoid, rather than because it's most efficient—I have habits & outcomes to change. Must get the art to break even & earn profit—but also must buy well when I must buy, &, since I must sell, I must sell more & more effectively.

Just like the Hurricane, always trying to do what she hasn't done before—eat with a spoon, speak, understand what we're saying to her & around her, climbing over railing rather than going thru a way opened just for her, etc. Coming thru!

Copyright © Eric Chaet 2005