Ticking Away…

Living on opposite sides of the country didn’t offer much opportunity to get to really know my grandparents. My parents moved from the east coast – where they had both grown up – to the west coast while I was young. My dad got a job with a firm that he would ultimately work for until he retired.

There were infrequent visits, but between visits the distance was much more of a barrier, only a few decades ago, than it is now. Regular long distance (expensive) phone calls, and passing the phone around. It wasn’t the telegraph, but it sure wasn’t FaceTime.

So I didn’t know my grandparents well, but I did know things about them. My maternal grandfather had been a machinist. His wife, my grandmother, had raised a large family and was a proverbial “force of nature” to be reckoned with. I knew my paternal grandmother had worked in the county courts, and that my paternal grandfather was a watchmaker.

I have early memories of his desk – full of the specialist tools of his trade – in the office and workshop in the front room of their New Jersey home. But I was too young to be interested in “talking shop” with him.

He gifted me a watch, many years ago, and I remember him saying that to him a watch was no more or less than the quality of its movement. Everything else, he said “was just complications.” And that if you took care of a good watch, it would outlast you.

Before cell phones (and later smart phones) became ubiquitous and meant nearly everyone was carrying “a watch” in their pocket, I carried a pocket watch.

I liked that my pocket watch didn’t sit on my wrist and interfere while I was typing – something I spent (and still spend) a lot of time doing. When I started riding motorcycles, I liked that my pocket watch didn’t sit right where my riding jacket sleeve closure wanted to be.

And – if I’m honest – I liked that carrying a pocket watch was “a little odd,” and more than a little anachronistic.

When my phone started fitting in my pocket, for a while it replaced my pocket watch and was the only time-piece I carried.

I went back to carrying a pocket watch for a bit after seeing H4 at the Royal Museums on a trip to London, but it didn’t stick.

At some point, I bought a wrist watch. I don’t remember exactly when, or what prompted the purchase. Maybe Dawnise bought it for me. In any event, things have… escalated… since. These days I find myself with more watches than I have wrists to wear them on, which I think is a rough definition of a collector.

This all came to mind while I was looking at the details of a watch – its movement, really – and was stuck that it was accurate to “5-6 seconds per day.”

If you know nothing about watches, that probably means nothing.

If you do know something about watches that probably strikes you as either “pretty good,” or “pretty terrible.”

You might see it as “chronometer accuracy” or “much worse than a cheap quartz watch,” which are typically accurate to a few seconds a month.

Turns out both of these things are true, so “you’re right.”

Compared to a mechanical watch, a quartz watch is more convenient, more accurate, more reliable. Not to mention less expensive. And aside from changing a battery every year or so, they demand basically no maintenance.

Mechanical watches are something of an anachronism.

And to me there’s something fascinating, almost magical, about a mechanical watch movement. They’re delicate. Intricate. Mesmeric.

Springs, wheels, balances, escapements, all doing what they’re supposed to do, many times each second. Self-winding movements, with their semicircular rotor, are even more fascinating- reminiscent of our fascination with perpetual motion machines.

I mean, just look!

Still not impressed? Look closer…

The first mechanical watch I bought was a cheap open heart with an exhibition caseback – ‘cause even a cheap movement can be captivating to watch. I still have it, but I haven’t worn it in… forever.

Since then I’ve become more discerning about what I buy and wear. They’re something of an eclectic mix – often from small makers – the only thing they have in common is that they grabbed me.

Sadly, my grandfather died before I really “understood” watches. I sometimes wonder – as I did while writing this – what he’d think about the pieces I’ve collected.

Changes Aren’t Permanent…

I’ve been watching the incoming US administration flood the zone with shit mostly with my hands over my eyes, like a kid at a horror movie. The level of idiocy on display has been mind boggling, and I’m finding it impossible to imagine where this continuing for (at least) the next four years will leave us.

Dawnise and I used to say “stupidity should be painful,” and it occurs to me that maybe we should have been more… specific in our ask of the universe.

‘Cause this stupidity is painful. But it’s painful to the wrong people.

What’s really getting to me, above all the jaw-dropping stupidity, is the casual cruelty.

I can’t say I’m surprised. Groups tend to adopt and exaggerate attributes of their leadership. That’s true even when the group isn’t a group of toadies, and when the leader isn’t an unhinged narcissist. And this group is, and their leader is. And that chosen leader has been openly casually and repeatedly cruel for decades.

So this is very much what was asked for by those who asked for it.

And that’s the part I think I’m most struggling with.

That America has decided it’s ok to act like a prick.

To tell those who put themselves in harm’s way to protect others that the people who attacked them were patriots, were heroes, when those attackers were observably and objectively criminals. To jump around on stage like a ketamine addled teenager who never got past the idea that it was all about “winning.” To decide that the president is above the law.

To take actions while ignoring, or being incapable of predicting, likely consequences that will affect millions.

And I come back to the deeply depressing thought that it’s entirely possible that America has always been this way. Any marginalized group will tell you this isn’t new. There’s just an ever shifting set of scapegoats.

Still, I think something fundamental, and dangerous, changes when enough of us lean in to darker instincts. When we encourage our deamons to step out of the shadows and into the light, to stand proud. When we decide that it’s ok to openly exclude or subjugate the “other,” ignoring that we’re all an other to someone.

History shows us that over the long term these shifts are temporary. Sometimes it takes decades. Sometimes it takes generations. Sometimes it takes tipping into open conflict.

But ultimately things change.

They don’t go back to where they were, they converge to some new thing.

Until they change again.

Changes aren’t permanent, but change is.

Done Done Done

Last week Dawnise was naturalized as a British citizen. Just a week later her British passport arrived in the post.

With apologies to Inigo Montoya; “I’ve been in the ‘dealing with the UK Home Office’ business for so long, now that it’s over I don’t know what to do.”

Maybe pick another country, and see how many passports we can collect before we decide enough’s enough…

History Doesn’t Repeat Itself, You Say?

I’ve tried writing something about the cognitive dissonance today being both the presidential inauguration and MLK Jr. day is causing me several times. I started aiming to say something profound, when that didn’t work I tried to say something constructive, and when I couldn’t manage to even say anything coherent I gave up.

Since I couldn’t think of anything new to say, I’ll just repeat myself.

Democracy is Coming
Fragile Mores
Tired of Being Angry

Skeptics

News outlets are all reporting on Trump nominating Robert F Kennedy as US secretary of health and human services. And these outlets typically describe RFK as a “vaccine skeptic.”

A skeptic is “a person inclined to question or doubt accepted opinions.”

Skepticism is a powerful force against groupthink. I’m a practitioner, and a fan.

Someone who questions or doubts facts demonstrable well beyond a shadow of a doubt – like that vaccination saves lives – isn’t a skeptic.

They’re just wrong.

What We Do

Jung said “you are what you do, not what you say you’ll do.”

So, when the gamblers and bookies do things that disagree with the pollsters, my money’s on the bookies.

Sadly, the bookies basically called the US Election weeks ago.

This morning brought resigned sadness, but not much surprise.

I read the idea, somewhere, that politics and policy affects us in two ways: by what it does to us – the liberties provided or restricted, the taxes and tariffs levied – and by what it says about us – how our sense of self is reflected and affected.

What our tribe’s politics and policies say to people – especially those outside the tribe – about who we are, what we believe, and what values we hold dear.

It’s mostly through that lens that I’m despondent about another Trump presidency. Because of what I believe the choice says about the beliefs and values of the tribe that chose him.

A tribe that I’m part of. A tribe whose decisions cause ripples in every direction, and into the future.

Electing him to lead, and to represent the US on the world stage, is a decision that I fundamentally do not understand and deeply disagree with.

I didn’t understand it the first time. We knew plenty about Trump through how he ran his businesses. He had a long history of mistreating people who worked for him. He didn’t dispute it. He was proud of it. He berated belittled and verbally attacked people who disagreed with him. He weaseled out of agreements. And he styled himself a “self-made success,” despite starting well up the ladder thanks to inherited wealth. (You may notice that Trump’s current favored sycophant suffers from the same misapprehension.)

I was confused the first time. I’m utterly incredulous the second time. We had four years to see his reprehensible character and behavior amplified by the office of the presidency. Four years of him acting like a petulant child who needed nothing more than his mommy or daddy to send him to his room until he learned to behave like an adult. Four years of him putting his immediate family into positions of authority and responsibility for which they were no better suited or prepared than he was.

And there was a veritable conga-line of close former advisors and collaborators vocally, publicly, and voluntarily shouting that he’s unfit to lead.

And yet. Here we are. At least another four years.

So now what?

Well, mostly things are the same as yesterday.

He’s a bloviating cretin who spews an incomprehensible amount of nonsense and cruelty and who has historically broken more promises than he’s kept.

I don’t expect him to change.

So it seems there’s little choice but to see which promises he tries to keep, and do what can be done in response.

He’s stacked the deck pretty strongly in his favor, so stopping him will be … hard. The Supreme Court seems unlikely to help. The media is basically why we’re in this mess in the first place, so don’t look to them for help either.

I’m honestly not sure what that leaves.

What I am sure of is that there will be people who will need help. Will need support and defence against this “new world order.”

So we’ll help. Because, what we do matters.

Choose wisely…

Dear America,

I get that some folks are uncomfortable with the prospect of a female president.

And I can believe that the idea of a Black female president makes some people even more uncomfortable.

I don’t understand, but I can believe.

And some folks really aren’t worried about her gender, or her skin color, they really disagree with her politics.

And that I can l understand a bit.

Maybe one of those is you.

Fair enough.

I entreat you, vote for her anyway.

Even if – especially if – you were going to “sit this one out.”

Don’t abdicate that right and responsibility.

I’m not advocating for her because I think she’s the best possible president.

Rather because I think – because I am completely convinced – that she’s the best option.

By a country mile.

And because the alternative saddens and frightens me, in equal parts.

I’m saddened and frightened by the notion that the country would give power and control to a man who’s clearly and consistently demonstrated that he uses power to attack and suppress those who disagree with him… A man who has clearly and consistently demonstrated that he’s a petulant, racist, xenophobic, nepotistic, misogynistic, anti-science narcissist who can’t distinguish fact from fiction… A man who routinely, and almost casually, encourages violence against those with whom he disagrees.

That the country would give authority to such a man again makes me despondent.

Maybe you don’t like Kamala’s politics. Or her past as a public prosecutor. Or her performance as Biden’s Vice President. Or that she was part of Biden’s administration at all. Or that she’s a Democrat. Or her choice of running mate. Or.., something else.

I’m not saying those concerns aren’t important.

I’m saying that when forced to choose between the alternatives, I don’t see a choice. I have disagreements with Harris about what’s best for the country. I have a deep disagreement with Trump about what it means to be fit for leadership in a democracy, and what it takes to be a decent human being.

I get that a bunch of the people reading this live in states where your vote “doesn’t matter.” Where your vote will be just one more vote for or against the candidate that will nearly certainly carry your state.

That’s broken and needs fixing, make no mistake.

But even if that’s you. Vote.

Make a choice.

And please, please,

Choose wisely.

If Only I Could See What I’ve Seen With My Eyes

I’ve needed vision correction most of my life.

I have a strong memory of putting on glasses and being able to see the leaves on trees.

Despite the dramatic improvement, I hated wearing glasses as a teen. As soon as I could convince my parents I switched to contact lenses. I wore rigid gas permeables for years, before switching to extended wear softs for a while, and eventually to daily disposables.

I wore contacts basically exclusively from my late teens to my late 30s. I don’t even remember why I decided to get an updated glasses prescription, but at some point I did.

I still wore contacts most days – my glasses living in a case in my bedside table.

Until late 2019.

As COVID grabbed the world’s attention – and there was much speculation and uncertainty about how it spread – I decided that despite being careful about sanitization, sticking my fingers in my eyes twice a day every day was a risk I could easily eliminate.

By the time I considered switching back to contacts, two things had happened. First, my old contacts had passed their expiry date and I’d chucked them out. Second, and more importantly, I had gotten my first set of progressive focus glasses.

Presbyopia is a harsh mistress.

A bit over a month ago I decided to investigate contacts again, and made an appointment at a local optometrist.

I expected to end up with contacts and reading glasses, but learned that multifocal contacts had come a long way, and were only marginally more expensive than single focus. So we started there.

Over the next couple weeks I tried various combinations of distance and reading correction, ultimately finding a prescription that’s “pretty good.” Distance isn’t as good as my glasses, but it’s workable. Near field is similar – workable, but not as good as my glasses.

Annoyingly, this seems as good as it’s likely to get – ok, but very much a tradeoff.

Even more annoyingly, with contacts in you can’t “cheat” and look over/under them. Want to see detail in a piece of art? Getting closer doesn’t help.

As a final experiment I got single vision contacts and a cheap pair of reading glasses, to see if that was the sweet spot. After trying it for a day, running errands around the city and meeting friends for lunch, I can confidently say that reading glasses are not better,

Not even a little bit.

So after all that I’m likely to stick with glasses, at least most of the time. They’re better for reading. They’re better for distance. But they get rain drops on them. And steam up when coming in out of the cold.

And when you take them off to swim, or shower, or get a hair cut, the world closes in and gets very very small.

The optometrist told me that despite the claims in the marketing materials, multifocal contacts “won’t give you back the eyes you had twenty years ago.”

And that, it turns out, is what I really want.

So I guess I’m waiting for the ocular implants Cyberpunk fiction has been promising for decades to become an actual thing.

And when that happens, I hope they come with the option to toggle the world into black and white…

International Man of Mystery: Correspondence School

On Monday afternoon I sent away for another passport.

Not a renewed passport. Another passport.

’cause Monday morning I said the right words, sang the wrong words to America the Beautiful, and added “British” as the second in my “list” of nationalities.

When we lived in Luxembourg I kept a bag of “US essentials” – and I had a ritual, while sitting on flights back to the US, of swapping European cards for US cards in my wallet, Euros for Dollars in my money clip, and the SIM in my phone. I would joke that all I was missing was a passport.

So it’s kinda neat, in a slightly childish sort of way.

But putting your passport in the mail is a uniquely uncomfortable act. Special Delivery, signed, tracked, doesn’t matter. If that thing doesn’t get to its destination, or ultimately doesn’t get back to you, things are … a bit complicated.

I felt a bit better once it had been signed for at the UK Passport office, and I’ll feel even better once it gets back in my hands, hopefully in a couple weeks.

Until then I can’t leave the UK, ‘cause I don’t have a passport. And even if I had my US Passport, I wouldn’t be able to get back into the UK. Like the US, the UK requires its citizens use its passport to enter, so the moment I became a citizen my Indefinite Leave to Remain and all previously issued immigration Visas became invalid. Passport or GTFO.

Hence the passport-in-the-mail maneuver.

So yeah… in other news, I’m now a British-American citizen. (American-British reads wrong, I’m not sure why. I suspect it’s just one of those rules we follow without necessarily understanding.)

And I’ve registered to vote, so I guess I don’t get to say “not my circus, not my monkeys” anymore – I’m a monkey in two circuses now.