Transition: Summer

The Summer Solstice may be a ways off, still, but the real start of summer has arrived, because school's out. Everything's in bloom; there's lettuce in the garden. It's a good time to grill burgers, to listen to the baseball game on the radio.

I tell my friend the Giants are in Florida, playing at Land Shark Stadium. A non-native English speaker, she hears it differently. "Lamb Shank Stadium?" I hesitate a beat. Hmmm, that seems like a better name for the joint, actually.

Then my conscience takes over and I correct her. Once a teacher, always a teacher.



I think about my career, and what has been constant, as opposed to those pieces (called jobs) that are always changing. It seems that forever I've been a writer, a teacher, a listener.

Those are the ever-present aspects.

Since January, I have had no employer. Five months. Last time it took 9 months between jobs, but now it seems almost pointless to look. My profession is in disarray, its fabled institutions teetering on the edge of failure.

The print publishing industry is going the way of the automobile industry.

There are other issues. I'm not sure I want to work for another person again. That feels like something more possible at an earlier stage of life. Now, by contrast, I am firm in my ideas, my analysis, aware of the fallacies that fuel employment.

I like small organizations, where each person's actions really matter, and where nobody just "floats." Small business represents the best of America, as do small NGOs. Nothing big in this country is really good, or reliable.

Bigness breeds contempt for others. It creates a greenhouse for arrogance, a rationale for inactivity, and presents huge barriers to creative thinking. I work with small or mid-sized organizations when I can; they're much more compatible with my style.

I'm turning into an elder. By previous generations, I would already be an elder, except when it come to Baby Boomers of a certain stripe, none of the old rules have ever applied to us.

My father retired around my age. Retirement? Now there's a sick joke.

But I don't care, because my primary work -- writing, teaching, listening will continue as long as I am sentient. After that, presumably I will still be listening.

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