Musings on a Daydream

I was daydreaming on the bus this morning. Daydreaming has become a favorite pastime, a hobby of sorts, in this somewhat isolating world of immersion. Take for example, the viticulture and enology class that I attend Tuesday afternoons for three hours. Three hours of lecture is a substantial amount of time, no matter what the class, but when the class is in another language, it is particularly taxing. So, as the minutes tick slowly by and the curtains flap in the subtle breeze, my mind gradually lapses to another time and place, which brings me back to my state this morning.

I was reading an essay written by Woodrow Wilson in September 1891 – then professor at Princeton University – entitled “How Books Become Immortal.” The essay was included in the January/February 2006 edition of Atlantic magazine, which was given to me by my friend Micah before leaving New York for Chile because it contained an article on California olive oil. With articles ranging from olive oil to the new pope to the culture war in the U.S. to new age jazz singers, it has become my daily bus reading, and I’ve nearly progressed from cover to cover. I sat there reading Wilson’s words describing what it is that could make a book immortal: “…A casting of thought which could not but arrest and retain men’s attention; it [the book] said some things once and for all because it gave them their best saying. Or else it spoke with a grace or with a fire of imagination, with a sweet cadence of phrase and a full harmony of tone, which have made it equally dear to all generations of those who love the free play of fanciful thought or the incomparable music of perfected human speech.” I thought to myself that this piece of Wilson’s – this prose like poetry – was great writing itself. And I also thought how extraordinary it would be to write something that generations perceive as immortal. Writing has always been a passion of mine. I remember writing fanciful stories as a mere elementary student and an essay in honors high school history about Benjamin Holt’s 75 model Caterpillar tractor – an assignment to document a piece of local history. Who would have thought that these early productions, with their own garnering of prizes, would fuel my passion for writing today? I have often humored my parents, saying that I should kick this agriculture habit and pursue a writing career. But agriculture, after all, runs through my arteries with an energy as intense as my blood scarlet. Chalk it up to six generations of family history, I suppose. And, on top of that, I reason that my interest in writing is, in actuality, a result of my passion for agriculture and the path my life has taken given this passion. I consider my best writing not to be those fanciful tales written by the young, creative mind but instead that Caterpillar essay, my various travel logs, or my journal where I write about those things which I have personally encountered, those things that I feel, those things that light a fire within me – like agriculture.

Yet, all of this is still a preface to my commuting daydreaming tale. Remember, I did title this blog “Directed Wanderings,” so be it my whole person or just my mind, it is what the reader should come to expect of me. In fact, my daydreams this morning were a series of mental wanderings – just like this excerpt – spawned by a conversation I had with my landlady last night. I was sorting through email when Lony came in and asked what I was working on. I told her I was sending email inquiries about Ph.D programs and then explained that when I return from this year abroad, I will begin a doctorate. At my mention of going back to school, she rolled her eyes, threw back her head, and exclaimed, “¡Tanta escuela!” (“So much school!”) And then she proceeded with a series of questions about why I planned to go back to school. Was I going to be a student forever? How long would it take? But after another four years, I’d be in my 30’s! Did I ever plan to get a job? I told her yes, that I wanted to work for a university. But couldn’t I get a job in a business without more schooling? Why don’t I just do that? Finally, exhausted from the inquisition, I simply said, “No quiero trabajar en empresa. Quiero trabajar en universidad.” (“I don’t want to work in a business. I want to work in a university.”) That basically killed our conversation, and I went back to my mail.

So, what is it that possesses one to desire to work in a university and thus pursue so much education? Surely, it is not for the money. It has been documented that people in private industry can make just as much or more money – with fewer degrees – than people in the public sector. As I sat, staring out the window at the littered streets and graffitied buildings, I developed two explanations. I can only speak for myself, though perhaps there are others with my same sentiments. My first reason for my educational and career pursuits stems from something I already mentioned: I have a passion for agriculture. It is the life I know; it is my family’s history. Farming is not just a job; it is a life. And it is a tough life at that! A farmer doesn’t arrive at the office at 8:00am and leave at 5:00pm. A farmer lives by the whim of the weather. A farmer has no negotiating power over his income, even though he produces the bountiful cornucopia that isn’t just our pleasure but our means of survival. Stepping down from my soapbox, I view university research and the entire land grant mission of teaching, research, and extension – through unbiased methods and distribution – as providing efficiency and innovation to growers, and perhaps a means of just making their lives a little bit easier. If I can give that back to my family of farmers and to other farmers whose trials and turmoils keep me fed, then all the years of education are worth the effort.

But there is another reason for my pursuits, perhaps not as valiant but equally rewarding on a personal level. Allow me to quote Wilson once again. “The world is attracted by books as each man is attracted by his several friends. You recommend that capital fellow So-and-so to the acquaintance of others because of his discriminating and diverting powers of observation: the very tones and persons – it would seem the very selves – of every type of man live again in his mimicries and descriptions. He is the dramatist of your circle; you can never forget him, nor can any one else; his circle of acquaintances can never grow smaller. Could he live on and retain perennially that wonderful freshness and vivacity of his, he must become the most famous guest and favorite of the world. ….In short, in every case of literary immortality there is present originative personality. Not origination simply, -that may be mere invention, which in literature has nothing immortal about it; but origination which takes its stamp and character from the originator.” Wow! To know that “favorite of the world” and his originative personality – how truly remarkable would it be to have such company! But wait, perhaps I have.

At the universities I attended, I befriended a world of intriguing individuals. Take, for example, my friends “Guy among the trees” and “Barney.” These are their self-given pseudonyms on their own blogs. “Guy among the trees” and “Barney” are themselves comrades, and both describe on their blogs their “Philosophe 5” group that meets every Friday afternoon for drinks and discussion to unwind from the week passed. I remember similar meetings with friends the last few years – confiding in them about academic and personal issues alike, but more emphatically, about how to survive yet another Ithaca winter! These friends, these – my future colleagues, may not be the famous guests as described by Wilson, but each have given my mind immortal sustenance. I thrive on university communities – the mixing of minds and ideas, the integration of races, ethnicities, and religions. The protesting students chaining themselves to trees, the thriving of arts and culture, and yes, the simple discussions around a table that open one’s mind to the incredible latitude of thought by people speaking in rhetoric. These could, in fact, be the “originative personality” about which Wilson spoke. These could be immortal dictions – books yearning to be written.

A sudden grip of the brakes on that ramshackle bus “awoke” me from my daydreams this morning. The guy sitting next to me had headphones on, but I could clearly hear the rap music, and he made hand gestures with the beat. I had not noticed the crowd of people now standing over me on that laden bus. Still in my hand was Wilson’s “How Books Become Immortal,” and I remembered how my daydreaming began. Perhaps a writing career will never materialize for me, and likely, I will never produce anything that survives the centuries. But, maybe my landlady is right after all. Maybe I will be a student forever. If that means living my passion and feeding on the passions of others, then I will assume immortal contentment in my place.