This is election season – don’t forget to vote! – there seems to be a lot of talk about the middle class. The middle class is getting crushed.

Made me think a bit about the middle class. I started talking with the internet about it, and up pops this term:

Middlebrow

Since I am an aspiring artist, this is my area. Middlebrow is a sometimes derogatory term for culture. It lives somewhere between lowbrow and highbrow. It’s very middleclass. Which might be a way of further defining this interesting term.

Middlebrow culture would be restaurants with waitstaff–known as a sit-down restaurant. And certain TV shows. NPR would be middlebrow.

Perhaps NPR would be upper-middlebrow. Enjoyed by the middlebrow middleclass who might be wanting to better themselves.

Wanting to better oneself is the upward mobility of the brow. There has been a lot of interest in the Book of the Month club that was started in 1926, to feed this culturally aspiring need. People wanted to read a good book, one that made them a little smarter and a little better. And they wanted it to be good, so they went to a trusted source.

There are cultural events that gain this status: Movies, music, books and even live theater. Awards are part of this, the grammies and the nobel prize spotlight certain things of interest. We want the good stuff, and we want to be sure. Certain categories are intrisically higher brow than others: live theater trumps movies and the symphony is better than a CD.

I myself am engaging in a highly middlebrow endeavor right now. I am trying to finish James Joyce’s Ulysses, a darling of the literary laurel-givers for almost a hundred years. It’s a beast of a book. I’ve been wanting to read it for forever, and I cant exactly say I am enjoying it. But I will be better, somehow, for doing it.

I have help. I have a recorded lecture from the teaching company which is a fascinating professor explaining all the delights I have just read and am about to read. I love his voice, and his excitement. He is so sure of what he says; he is the expert. But I want to hear it!

It is as if he is saying, “Come! Join me at the table in this delicious and satisfying feast of knowledge.”

And with that thought freshly formulated, there was a click. Now I understand what has been bothering me about the middlebrow. Let me tell you a story to explain what I mean.

Smack in the middle of middle is this relatively recent establishment known as Starbucks. There are not too many americans who have not frequented a starbucks. And it’s not for their great value prices. It has comfortable chairs and cool hip music. Intesting art is on the walls. It invites conversation, contemplation and study.Starbucks is a coffee shop, and it presents itself as part of the great coffeeshop diaspora.

And many people wear that ambiance like a fuzzy blanket. I also know people who understand the mystique of the coffee shop, with a memory of artists and bohemians who would partake in nights of small dense cups of coffee and think revolutionary thoughts in conversation.

Here is the thing: Starbucks in not that kind of coffeeshop. It may be comfortable, but it is not revolutionary. You may find dense cups of coffee (how often does a true cup of black espresso get ordered, though?) but you will not find revolutionary thoughts. You will not find a painting by an unknown artist on the wall, and you will not find an open mike night at a starbucks.

And this is the essence of Starbucks middlebrow success. It is filtered.

My Ulysses professor invites me to enjoy this delicious book. He gives me a place at the table.

But he does not invite me to cook. He is not in the slightest interested in my concoction.

And that is the definition of the middlebrow. It is curated. And that is the problem.

Starbucks is fine for what it is. But it is not such a feat to please someone with a hazelnut latte. And it should not surprise anyone to hear that I am beginning to enjoy Joyce’s Ulyesses.

But where is the wellspring of the new? The distinctive, challenging and revolutionary?

If I am going to get an epiphany I am going to have to look further than the span of my brow.

Back in 1997 or 8…we had an internet to build. I had come to silicon valley in 1995 and one of the biggest thrills of my life was to see the Netscape N in real life outside their headquarters. it was as if the people who made things  had come off the tops of the faraway planet where the superheroes live. I realized that human beings worked hard and made this stuff.

THe internet was a magical castle that everyone was working on, and making up exactly the way we all wanted.

We hoped that it would take off. We all said it *had* to take off.

We were so excited when URLs appeared on billboards. This was the era of geocities and flashing color hightlights. the “under construction” icon was seen almost everywhere.

I had a half of an idea to start a business of my own. Four of us were going to offer to make websites for small businesses. It failed. for numerous reasons, but i did make a lot of cold calls askign small businesses what they might pay for such a service.

It grew. THe internet got as big as we thought it would, and maybe even better.

When I drive on the 10 free way to West LA there is graffitti on one of the overpasses.

It’s been there for more than a year. It’s a URL. a Uniform Resource Locator as a spray-painted bit of tag under an overpass.

I can hardly credit it.

I was watching a documentary about Carole King and James Taylor. The Troubadour and folk music came into it. THe voice over said that after the craziness of the 60s people were ready to calm down.

And I thought about the 60s, because i grew up in the after eddies of it. And I remember the 70s. I was born in them, but the people I grew up around were still living the 70s.

In the 1960s they were so proud of what they had done. They say they stopped a war, and ran a bad president out of the white house.

I didn’t follow that part of the 60s. I followed the part where the landed on the moon. I got together with my friends and worked on technology. Me and my freinds–my computer freinds, email friends–we worked and made the internet. The dot coms exploded and then imploded. But what we built went on, and it’s still changing the world.

We didn’t stop a war. But maybe we are a little tired after the nineties…I wonder what music was supposed to pick us up?

I feel like I built something.

I think the 60s activists feel like they built something too. Or maybe they feel like they stopped something from being built.

What’s our legacy? What’s our anthology?

Veronica had been coughing in my face for the last few weeks. It was inevitable that I would catch her cough.

So I was lying in bed wishing I could have a longer nap, but when Veronica is done sleeping everyone is done sleeping.

“Mommy! Time to get up!” and she is pushing on my leg. “Come on mommy!”

I do not want this. I want to rest. I tell her “Mommy needs to rest”

“NO, mommy..it’s time to get up!”

I have to try something new. Lately, she’s been giving medical attention to her stuffed animals. It seemed to involve injecting them with an airpump. I thought I could use this:

“Mommy is sick. I need to rest.” then I made my voice sound all hoarse and pathetic.  “I need medicine”

“You need medicine?” Her little got serious. “Okay, I get you medicine.”

“Yes, you go get me medicine.” Aand she left.

ahhhhhh……..me and my pillow. Together at last.

I heard the toilet seat go down. Maybe she had to go pee pee.

More time passed. Then Chris came in to stand in the door with one hand on his hip.

“Didn’t you notice that it was quiet for too long?”

I was hoping it would stay quiet for longer.

“She was climbing up on top of the toilet reaching for the medicine chest. You told her to get you medicine.”

wow. She was going to go get me real medicine. She was going to take care of me.

Of course, I wanted to leap up and protect her from dangerously standing on the toilet to reach the very dangerous medicine cabinet.

But I am so touched that she was going to do whatever it took to take care of me.

I am reading and studying James Joyce’s Ulysses. One of his avatars, the aspiring writer Stephen Dedalus, is struggling with the contemporary literary impulses.

There is the lure of a job making money writing for a newspaper. And at the same time, for those who scorned the popular or overly-realistic requirements of journalism, there were the celebrated Irish national writers.

Joyce went East when all the signs were pointing West. He was realistic when he wrote, so much so that he was banned for vulgarity or pornography.

But he didn’t do what was -done-. He went a whole other way.

Was he the authentic Irish author? Perhaps. Because he wrote what has happening that day. That now-famous Bloom’s day.

His literary character wandered the streets of London, knowing he wanted something other. But he saw what was there too.

THere was a streetcar. THere was a dead dog.

If Joyce were writing now, i bet he would take blogs into consideration. All those many blogs that are making money.

What is the authentic voice of now?

I wonder if sometime I will have time to write what is happening right now. The billboards and the plastic grocery bags while the wildflower weeds grow underneath and the cactuses that are grimed under the prickles. And the sweetness of the texts that matter, or the comfort of a cup of tea.

WHat are our dreams and the engineering of our lives now? I look at my alarm clock today, this morning, and it is buzzing. It’s not supposed to buzz…THat probably means it’s broken or is going to break. It’s an old alarm clock, with red glowing numbers, a radio and a snooze.

Should i have an authentic alarm clock? Maybe one that doesn’t have a snooze and must be wound. When did snooze enter our lives? What kind of false life does this snooze bring to my morning?

well. For that matter, should I buy a rooster? What does authenticity mean? And how far back do we go? I do not live naked in a hut. There are external things that make demands on my life.

So I should get the most high-tech specialized alarm clock to live in my modern life, one that uses all the resources of technology to wake me and launch me on my day.

or maybe I should buy the cheapest one because it doesn’t matter.

but if it doesn’t matter, then maybe i should forgo society altogether and go back to the mud hut.

What on earth does authentic mean, anyway?

I’m getting older. Maybe I will get to the part where I know better.

I’m supposed to be old enough to know better.

But I don’t. A lot of the time I don’t.

But maybe I should listen to the old woman in me. The one that says:

wear earplugs when you go to that club or that concert

and who says

That person is exciting, but she isn’t for you. You don’t need that.

Also, I have learned to know that I can find what i need. I have been workign on eating down my cupboards. I stock up when I go to the grocery store, which is all fine, but if i forget what i already have then I end up with 10 cans of tuna.

tuna is one of those things I *think* i like, and i often do enjoy it when I eat it. But I just never seem to reach for it.

I can trust that i will have the ability to get more of what i need. that is something I can remember

Reading one of my favorite columnists today, James Lileks talked about art. He says:

Is it really necessary nowadays to tell people who you voted for in order to reassure them that you’re criticizing art from the proper perspective?

That makes me sad and a little mad. Why do we have to agree on an ideology to be moved by beauty? That should not be so!

It’s unamerican.

But, upon reflection, it’s been held true for a long time. Only certain people are allowed to say what is true and what is good. Religion and education and class are all part of it. I would *like* to believe the world is more equal than that.

And that is what the founding fathers of America kinda said. “All men are created equal” was written then by those expounders of the age of enlightenment. We all get to make up our own minds. We all get to choose.

Except I am so much a snob on so many levels. I won’t read Harry Potter or the Da Vinci Code because I don’t believe that something so popular could be worth my time. And I as I am reading Joyce’s _Ullysses_ I am also listening to a lecture series from a famous professor about what this book really means.

So. I am a big fat hypocrite. I get to choose what I like. But I also want to choose who I listen to for recommendations.

When Chris and I were first dating, he took me to Disneyland. He loves Disney, and all the nostalgia of the Land. I hadn’t been since I was 5. He wanted to show me this magic place.

I was more sophisticated than a 5 year old this time. I went around in a search for authenticity and said “It is nice. But is it art?”

He didn’t think it needed to be art. Which led to a long conversation in the one and only sit-down restaurant in Disneyland about beauty and the purpose of story and art in society. Is Disney consistent with the original storytellers intent with regards to Snow White? Is the current company consistent with Walt’s vision?

One of the reasons I love this man is that we are still talking about these things, on a monthly if not weekly basis. It has expanded to include a number of other examples.

But the thing about Disney is that it was created during  a moment of time in the industrial age that allowed the mass production and dissemination of beautiful things cheaply.

So now we enter an age of beautiful things being cheap and common. MAN MADE things being beautiful and cheap and everywhere.

I find it interesting that a lot of art students, and some professional artists, are now turning collections of man-man things into art installations. “Found art”?

Somebody made that.

Back before disneyland, the western art world was working to balance form to follow function and to follow beauty. We’ve been watching a documentary series, The Genius of Design , which discusses how to make all this happen. Is a telephone beautiful?

Steve Jobs tried to make his. And he is following a long line of designers.

Is there anything more available?

All these man-made things that we work on and use and try to find beauty in and beauty despite of…i have to wonder. Is it art?

Because we are not as good at art as nature. Can a painting ever eclipse a sunset? Or an eclipse, for that matter?

Yesterday while walking, I saw a woman whose arms were sleeved in tattoos. Man-made art. The ink–the pictures–that covered her arms?

Flowers.

Sister, don’t you know you are already a flower?

Yesterday, my husband was just off. He seemed grumpy, and I couldn’t do much but leave him alone.

I was not so charming myself. But we had a lot to do, and had a lot of toddler (one) to take care of. I figured I would take the little one to her favorite story time at the library. I told Chris this. He told her.

Life with a toddler should be on a need-to-know basis.

“Liberry!” She was pulling on the door to get there. But it wasn’t time yet.

“Why did you tell her?!”

“I’m sorry!” he said.

fine, I got my stuff together and we went early. But lo and behold, they had moved the schedule. CRUSH me. She enjoyed running around and playing even without the regularly scheduled story, but I was nearly devastated that my library would no longer have Saturday story hour. WHAT were they thinking? Us working parents (and that would be MOST) were not free to come at 11 on a Thursday.

We came home, and I was trying to share my feelings with Chris as we were getting V’s lunch ready.

“Did you complain? Did you tell them it was inconvenient?”

“No, because the regular kid librarian wasn’t there, and it was a new mean librarian. Not only did she not care, she said that Veronica had to put her shoes back on.”

“You should write them a letter.”

Typical HUSBAND answer. I WILL write a letter but right now I am having feelings.

“Never mind. I can’t even talk to you.”

“What? I just said you should write a letter.”

NEVER MIND.

So, Veronica had her lunch and then naptime.

Glorious naptime. Back to bed for me. As I am ready to reunite with my pillow, Chris said “I am going to put Veronica’s kitchen together.”

He had long ago ordered a kitchen for V. She loves toy kitchens. He looked over the options and decided on one. The only problem was, the reviews said it was difficult to assemble. So it had been sitting in it’s box waiting til daddy had free time.

Apparently he had free time.

“Fine. I’m going to nap”

I lay down, and enjoy a book, and just as I am about to drift off I hear

ZNNNNZZZZ

the electric screwdriver. He is assembling the kitchen in the house. I thought he would do it somewhere else. The garage? Because he *knew* it was hard to do, and he wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for Veronica.

Well, I was sleepy and not willing to get up to investigate.

Not until, that is, I hear the sounds of child awakening.

I stagger out. I see the living room entirely covered in parts. And a storm clouded husband, with the fugue that only comes from allen wrenches and “Some Assembly Required”.

“I didn’t think you were going to do this in here”

“I am pretty sure this is missing pieces. And I dont’ have the right tools.”

What in God’s name possessed this man to start this project here? And now? Doesn’t he know that my life depends on Saturday nap? How am I supposed to keep my energy up?

I looked at him. I did not say any of the things I was thinking. I didn’t even have the energy to yell at him. My nap was gone, never to be had. The point now was how to handle this situation.

“Can you move this to your office?”

“I don’t have room in my office!”

Hm. “Can you cover the parts that look like a kitchen so Veronica won’t know what it is?”

He gathers the bits, and I say “I’ll go get her and we will go somewhere while you finish.”

Now it just looks like he is constructing a white cabinet, and I go get the child. I tell her that we are going to go on a trip.

Not if she has any say:  “Jammies ON!’

yeah.  She didn’t really want to be awake either.

Well, since she is still sluggish we go to the couch and she plays with the iPad. She minds her own business, and Chris makes progress. She is happy to have us all in the same room. “Daddy, what you doing?’

“I’m building.”

back to the iPad.

Chris is making so much progress that he gets to the part where the hidden items have to come out. We had to confer over her head. The vote: she was content, and he should keep going.

Out comes the toy stove top, the little sink and the refrigerator door.

“A kitchen!” Eagle eyes darted up from the iPad. “Whachoo doing?”

“Daddy’s making a kitchen for Veronica. You need to wait your turn, and then you can play with it.”

Veronica, the irrepressibly wiggly child, sat quietly on the couch with me, and started fascinated at the construction of her toy kitchen. There were a very few excursions down the hall to find a favorite stuffed animal, but for more than an hour she sat patiently and waited in anticipation for her kitchen to be assembled.

It was a miracle. I’ve never seen her exercise such control. I would have sworn she didn’t have it in her to sit still and be patient.

At one point, when I had stepped away, she said to her daddy:

“It’s a very nice kitchen, Daddy. Thank you.  Can I come give you a hug?”

She had been instructed to stay out of his way. She had just said THREE PERFECT SENTENCES.

Daddy said “Yes, you can give me a hug.”

She walked up to him still in her footy jammies, gave him a big hug, and then went back to her chair.

The kitchen was complete fairly soon thereafter, and she could not have been more delighted.

Here’s the thing. I could have ripped Chris a new one for the many things along the way before we got to the part where Veronica was being as cute as anything. But I didn’t. I bit my tongue and just didn’t.

And we had an afternoon that we will remember for the rest of our lives. It was have been so easy to screw it up and never know what I had missed.

I can see it. I can see it so clearly I can almost touch it.

But I can’t quite reach it. I can see the problem. I even see the solution. Yet I can’t get the problem paired with the solution and get the wheels moving.

WHAT is the deal? I know what I know…I’ve been thinking about that and I am settled. I am not wrong.

Not exactly.

But I still can’t make it happen.

So what’s the deal? It could all be so simple. It could all be so beautiful. But it’s not and it stands like it’s never gonna move ever ever ever.

There is a something else that gets in the way. Knowing the answer is different from getting the fix and failure to shake hands.

I remember this story of the promised land.

The PROBLEM was that the children of israel were enslaved. Everybody knew the problem. Nobody knew the solution.

Except GOD intervened in the most fabulous ways possible, brought Moses in and did legendary miracles and freed them from their slavery.

And the slavery wasnt the problem anymore. In fact, fixating on the slavery as the problem was merely a mask on the REAL problem.

which, in a fascinating back-to-the-present-day, is STILL a problem.

The children of israel needed  a place to live.

The statement of work might go something like this:

Move the Israelites from their position of slavery in Egypt through the wilderness into the prophetically specified land area  and set up a functioning society.

yeah. Cause getting out from the slavery was only the first part.

The promised land was the real goal. But they had to get there.

they set out with very high hopes and made good progress.

AND THEN WANDERED FOR FORTY YEARS

Famously, they wandered around, instead going directly to where they supposedly wanted to go. Every day of those forty years all those hundreds–thousands?–of people got up and went a direction other than the one they needed to go to get where they wanted to be.

Sure, the Bible says they were cursed to do so. Did Moses tell everybody, “Buckle in the long haul. Curses! Forty years again!”

Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. Even if he did, did they believe him? Did some of them take day trips..pack a picnic lunch of manna…to the promised land?

But my problem of circular regression instead of straightforward progression is not mine alone. I suppose I can take some comfort in my shared misery.

I don’t know why. But it seems to work like that. Tick off all the days of the forty years as they pass. We’ll get there eventually but only if we don’t give up.