I tend to lean into the extreme, to see how far I can push my body. For example, whenever you see a guy jogging in 12 degrees with a windchill factor of minus five and think to yourself, “What a moron!” chances are that moron is me. And when you question the sanity of a road cyclist rolling along some suburban lane in 95 degrees with a heat index of 102, the alleged insane person is also me. Why? Because I am living proof that IQ and good judgment don’t necessarily occupy the same domain. Often, Kathryn, my wife, has tried reverse psychology. “Aren’t you going biking today?” she’ll ask whenever it’s been recommended that people remain indoors because of an excessive heat warning. “It’s just a nor’easter,” she’ll tell me. “You can probably leave your hat and gloves at home.”
I would be remiss if I failed to report that, since reverse psychology seems to have fallen short of its aim, Kathryn has reinstituted a former method: the unleashing of an A-to-Z avalanche of the Urban Dictionary’s most unflattering terms. Trust me, it’s quite an anthology, a real treasure trove. But the Urban Dictionary, however amusing, is not among my aspirations or recommendations.
Anyway, my extremism, or stupidity when applicable, isn’t just relegated to physical endurance; I like stretching my mind as well. What is my mind’s potential? That’s a matter each of us should want to know about ourselves. Specifically, I like to know where my limits or capacities for understanding the gifts left behind by musical and literary giants lie. The compositions of Bartok were not as clear to me in my 40s as they are now in my 60s. The same could be said of Faulkner’s writings. I humbly admit that the road from the accessible melodies of Rachmaninoff to the dissonant harmonies of Bartok was hardly a straight one. Neither was the road from Steinbeck to Faulkner. But there’s still a literary northstar that I’ve yet to conquer: Finnegan’s Wake. In my 40s, when at a library, I broached but a single page of Jame Joyce’s opus before placing it back on the shelf. In my 50s, I made a second attempt (also at a library) and managed a chapter before reconciling that Joyce’s art was beyond my grasp. An English professor friend once advised me, “Treat Finnegan’s Wake like you would a Mahler or Bruckner symphony: don’t try to cling to every note; just close your eyes and allow it to seep in.”
I think I’m finally ready. I plan to make 2026 my year. Wish me luck.
Michael's Corner 
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