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PerspectiveOctober 30, 2005 I've been trying not to let my current job ruin my life. Copyediting a manuscript that needs a thorough overhaul is like . . . what? Using a chewing gum and a wire hanger to fix the muffler on a truck whose head gasket is about to blow? Using good butter cream frosting on a cake that tastes like sawdust? All these hours, all this effort, all my experience, tied up in a book that will never be much good. To make matters worse, the book's about the Middle East, and it'll probably be a required text for college students . . . Pretty soon I'm taking personal responsibility for the probability that another generation of USians is going to go out into the world knowing zip about the Arab world. Worse than zip: they're going to think they know something because didn't they read this book? Meanwhile the Lamentissas have resurfaced on one of my lit-related e-lists, and I think they're about to get into one of those games that LPLs (liberals, progressives, and leftists) play: demonstrating how torn up they are about Disaster X, Y, or Z, and scoring political brownie points according to how far away it is, how many Third World people were killed, and how few other LPLs are blogging or otherwise beating their breasts about it. OK, so living in one of the Slow-Motion Disasters That LPLs Don't See has made me jaded -- the U.S. of A. is riddled with slow-motion disasters (scratch any Wal-Mart and you'll probably find a few), and hardly anyone's paying attention because they're glued to TV coverage of New Orleans, India, or Plamegate. Mostly it doesn't bug me too much, but when all my best energy is being sucked into a mediocre book by some lazy sumbitch, I get surly. Why can't I be writing my own mediocre book? Why can't we devote our collective energy to inventing an economic system that encourages people to do useful work they're good at instead of useless (if not outright harmful) work that pays? Downward spiral, here I come . . . Then I noticed that the first day of Eastern Regular Time was bright and warm, and I remembered that I have a horse. So around 1:30 I headed out from the barn, leaving Rhodry in a stall because I had a feeling I'd be going too far too fast for a 10-year-old Malamutt. I did indeed. Into the state forest, and southwesterly into a part of it I rarely ride through. Found a good trail that took us across several fire lanes, and a probably faster route to the Ag Hall; then in a fire lane that might not have been a real fire lane because it was too up-and-down and rocky I encountered an artist buddy on his handsome Appaloosa, whose name really is Spot. I worked with Omar in my newspaper days; he and his wife are both wonderful artists. In the years since, we both acquired horses, and since we all work from home we're lucky if we see each other at the post office once every six months. So Omar and I caught up on horseback, while Spot nuzzled at Allie's neck and Allie didn't mind. I wasn't wearing a watch, but the Unsaved Daylight was heading west fast; Omar said it was 4 o'clock. So we headed off in our separate directions. The sun had set by the time Allie and I reached Elaine's. She was in the barn, keeping an eye on the two almost-weanlings who were checking out the trailer that currently shares their paddock. We yakked about things horsey; I kept an eye on the light and finally realized I'd better go now. Then of course Joe the loquacious architect drove up; I hadn't seen him since early in the summer and he wanted to introduce me to a friend of his. I was polite, while thinking, The light, the light! and that I had to bushwhack my way around a trail that was temporarily blocked off. I made it through Chicama Vineyards with the last of the light and Allie power-walked up the mogul-punctuated stretch of the Stoney Hill Road in the nearly pitch dark. Not quite so dark, though, that I couldn't see the Malamutt wriggling through a pasture fence to greet us as we swung up the barn driveway. Five o'clock. Ginny had fed Dolci, gone up to the house, and left the aisle light on. I rubbed Allie down, stowed my various gear, fed Allie, packed the Malamutt into the truck, and drove home. Damned if that job didn't seem quite so bad when I got there. And hey, I've only got two chapters and the bibliography to go.
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