Alan Fox

Since I usually write my weekly blog on Sunday, which was yesterday, I told Daveen last night that it was already “too late” to write my blog early.  She laughed, which was nice. I always love to hear Daveen laugh.

This morning, faced with an imminent deadline, I decided to write about the galvanizing power of deadlines, something, that certainly applies to me.  I checked my previous blogs and was not entirely surprised to find that I have written about that before.

My mind immediately turned to possible alternatives.  In other words, Plan B.  Here are a few of the possibilities, (together with my comments).

1. Skip the blog for this week. (Unthinkable.  I’ve written a weekly blog for eight years, and do not intend to miss one.)
2. Write another blog about deadlines, but with a different twist. (I’m not excited about plowing the same field yet again.  I like to believe I’m more creative than that.  Also, as Robert Frost wrote, “No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.)
3. Consult my list of potential blog topics. (The inspiration is often more difficult than the actual writing.  That’s why, whenever I have an idea, I write it down.  I have accumulated a list of more than 300, but I prefer to challenge myself to come up with something new.)
4. Write a “spin off” from my other blogs about deadlines. What do I do when my first plan to meet a deadline doesn’t work?  (Aha!  Plan B.)

So here we are.  In the middle of Plan B.

There are three reasons I seldom develop a formal Plan B.  First, I don’t want to waste my time planning an unnecessary alternative.  Second, I always expect Plan A to work.  Third, I have confidence that I can come up with Plan B if and when I really need to.

Of course, I only make plans when I’m faced with a deadline, so I guess this blog is really about deadlines after all.  Just now I bought tickets for a play that will be performed in three weeks.  The theater was already almost sold out.  Even though I might think I’m the most important person in the world, theaters and airlines never seem to agree.  They just sell tickets to the first buyer to come along.

And I prefer plans (and blogs) that are simple and short.

Enough said.

Alan

Many of my friends say their best ideas flow when they’re in the shower.  My best ideas drift by just as I’m falling asleep.  But they evaporate within thirty seconds unless I write them down.

In the light of morning I often find that I either don’t understand the thought, or that it wasn’t very good after all.

“A Barrier of Mist” was one of those ideas last night, and this morning I still understand and like it.

Physical barriers are easy to discern.  We all know a concrete wall when we hit one.  Intangible barriers, such as time, space, and thought, however, are just as real.  They are not as visible, but they are often even more impactful. Collectively, I think of these as “A Barrier of Mist.”

For this blog I’ll focus on one – the barrier of thought.

This morning as Daveen and I were getting dressed she asked, “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” I said.

“Okay.”

I’m glad she asked.  Obviously, outside of my own awareness, I must have appeared annoyed. That’s why Daveen asked.  How could she possibly know what I was actually feeling?  The best way to find out is simply to ask.

Was I truthful?  How could she know for sure?  One facet of human behavior is that we aren’t always truthful.  We even honor those who effectively misrepresent themselves.  We call them Academy Award winning actors.  In the 1982 film, the actor Ben Kingsley was not really Mahatma Gandhi.

Long ago I decided that I would always choose to believe a person when they shared their thoughts or feelings.  After all, each of us is the only expert in the entire world who knows what we are really feeling and thinking in the moment. If you misrepresented yourself, I’m not responsible.  And your guess is certainly better than mine.

I was once in the car as a friend was driving his son to the emergency room. His son was crying and seemed to be in a lot of pain.

“You don’t feel bad,” he said to his son.  “Stop crying.”

Really? Telling a crying child that he isn’t in pain is, at best, confusing.  At worst it’s telling him to hide, or mistrust, his own feelings.

Our communication of thoughts and feelings is inevitably incomplete.  We simply don’t have the time to tell others everything we’re thinking or feeling. And sometimes we don’t have the ability.  Perhaps we lack the right words. Or we might have insufficient insight into our own emotions. Or we might be embarrassed.  Nonetheless, when you tell me how you are feeling I trust you.

Right now I’m feeling cheerful, having completed this week’s blog.

You can believe me on this.

Alan

When I was eight years old my father taught me how to play chess. Naturally, he won every game. And yet, I persevered.

I studied chess books and worked hard to improve my game. By the time I was ten years old, I’d become a pretty good player. Sadly, this turned out to be a double-edged sword. As soon as I started to win consistently, my dad lost interest in playing chess (at least with me). And still I worked to become better.

When I was a senior in high school, I became the president of the chess club. That year I experienced the high point of my high-school chess career.

At a citywide tournament, I was matched against the very best player from Fairfax, a school that had earned the reputation for being the top high school chess team in Los Angeles.

After the one-hour time limit, our game was still unfinished, so the Fairfax faculty advisor, who was running the tournament, hovered over the chess board to adjudicate our game.  That means he studied the position of each player’s pieces and decided who would have won the game if it had continued.  I was shocked when he called the match in my favor.  But, hey, a win is a win and I was able to advance to the next round.

When I was 31, I returned to playing chess recreationally and entered several tournaments.  My chess career ended for good, however, when I realized that very few women played tournament chess, and it was not the best way for a single man to meet the woman of his dreams (that would be Daveen, of course). To this day I don’t know if Daveen plays chess, or even checkers for that matter.  But we have found other ways to amuse ourselves.

I’m thinking of introducing some of my grandchildren to chess, but only until they start to beat me.

Sic transit gloria mundi.  Translation – “thus passes the glory of the world.”

Alan