Can you explain the scientific reason why?
Focus, instead, upon honing your ability to cope with the normal, easily anticipated, eternal complications of your work. Calluses defend what no glove could protect.
It Has Always Been Thus. We yearn for liberation, expecting the good guys to ride in on foaming horses or the eleventh hour benefactor to magically appear. Fortunate synchronicity when it occurs. No evidence of bad luck when it does not.
The game of Three Card Monty is not a game of skill for anyone but the one inviting you to play. They've learned to tickle your switches. Can you recognize when someone is tickling yours?
The problem with keyword searches? They give you what you've asked for, not what you really needed but were too ignorant to know you needed. That's why libraries catalogue their holdings by subject categories. Some books are general, some more specific. The specific are not classified as subsets of more general classifications. You want a book on blue crabs, ask for blue crabs, not the more general crustaceans.
Turns out that if you go looking for something under the wrong classification, you'll get exactly what you asked for, but not nearly what you expected. So, the first question is not always an obvious one: What is the proper question?
I wondered, as a little exercise in actually using the largest store of knowledge ever assembled in one place, The Library of Congress, how the Ancient Romans managed projects. So, I started, as instructed, by looking under "Ancient Romans" in the subject categories. Result: Nothing!
How about Romans Ancient? Ditto.
The instructor had passed us the first rule of library research: Don't even think about doing it yourself. Ask one of the research assistants for help. So I did. In about thirty seconds, he'd properly reframed my query into Roman Empire. Lots of hits on that.
Now, for the next layer. "Roman Empire Projects" Nada. What do they call projects in this subject index? I figured this one out on my own, by referencing a project book I knew existed and checking to see what subject classification they'd assigned to it. My mouth is still hanging open, slack-jawed.
Industrial Regulation.
Crap! That pretty much explains it all, doesn't it?
Frustrating additional hours found me pulling encyclopedias of various antiquities from the reference shelves, trying in vain to find any mention of industry, industrial activity, planning, scheduling, controlling, leading, sponsoring ... cripes but I nearly exhausted my synonym generator.
I found a little more than squat, and thought at first this was about me and my advanced Google Poisoning at work. But I started reading between the lines, and adjacent entries, and just trolling for something kinda-sorta-maybe related, the essence of great research, and began to understand.
One entry in the authoritative guide to the ancient world noted that there is damned little surviving about Roman industry, but that it's clear that they had no industry as we think of it today. It went on to claim that there is no evidence of enterprises comprised of more than about 100 people from that time. It was an empire supplied by craftspersons. I found other mentions of some rudimentary guilds, common craftspersons banding together for mutual protection and to provide burial services to their members, but these were never organized beyond locality, and were periodically banned outright after they'd threatened the status quo.
It was looking as if I'd asked an unanswerable question until I stumbled upon one text which had a section entitled Beliefs. It described the Roman world view, which could not be more different than ours. Perhaps this might explain the curious absence of project management from their empire.
One primary belief (the one mentioned most prominently in this text) was the apparently universal notion that The Fates determined destiny. The future was pre-ordained by the Gods. Romans could ask for divine intervention, but the results were transcribed before any of them were born. Romans were along for the ride.
This is a handy convention, and probably meant that Romans suffered far less from the self-helpless syndromes common today. We believe in our diets, and assume personal responsibility when they don't work: It's our fault. Any Roman could casually claim that the Gods had decided that he was to be a fatty and leave it at that.
So what regulated the work of Roman craftsmen? I think it likely that some variants on pre-destination did. First, by law, the sons of a craftsman were required to follow in their father's trade. This ensured that specialized knowledge would be passed down through successive generations. Second, the noble classes despised physical labor, and took great pains to distance themselves far away from what they considered occupations damaging to body and mind, aka work. It was left to those actually doing the work to determine how to do it, since those who might attempt to regulate it externally had no earthly interest in the degrading stuff.
This resulted in an empire that did not produce much in the way of technical innovation, but distributed production widely. They did not worship their aspirations, eliminating uncertainty not by cleverly planning it away, but by accepting it as the normal way of the world.
I left the library feeling strangely stupid. A sensation I've experienced enough that I really should have learned by now that I was experiencing learning. After a day of reflection, I'm integrating this new information into my previous expectations and finding some crude resolution in that.
And I believe that my problem with finding evidence of project management in Roman times is curiously similar to my difficulties finding what I consider project management in our own time. The Romans didn't have industrial regulation because they didn't have any industry. Look at any list of leading companies and consider how many of them can be fairly labeled Industrial. Sure, all of them are HUGE, as in too big to manage enormous. Hello? Are we attempting to apply Industrial Regulation in the absence of anything even remotely resembling Industry?
You answer the question for yourself. The Gods have prescribed a headache for me right now.
Crash is mostly sociable. He seems pleased whenever either one of us returns, but also crying plaintively as if mourning. I've taken to offering a few kitty treats when I return, which, I know!, encourages infantile behavior. I scratch heads and switch out their water bowl for some cold water from the filter pitcher from the fridge. I don't expect them to drink the musty tap water here either.
Part of every afternoon involves the changing of the cat box ritual. The cat box, which I secreted in the bottom of the six-foot tall television cabinet in the corner of the living room next to the glass wall onto the balcony, lies behind two doors. The cats pass through the open back to do their business in private, but I swing open the front doors to sort out their leavings. I carry the kitchen garbage can into the living room and filter the bad stuff into it before adding the bathroom trash then tying off the liner and stepping out the door, down the hall one door to the right to the garbage chute room, and dropping the bag in for its six floor drop to the basement.
Easy ritual. The cats want more treats when I return. Hey, I was technically gone, if only for a half minute. ... No dice, guys.
I might pull the vacuum out and quickly de-fur the place. Both cats are shedding like Llamas, with Crash even making daily deposits of partially ingested fur around the place, punctuated with that emphatic retching that sounds like the end of the world coming up, but doesn't seem to bother him a bit.
Rose huddles under the too-big bed whenever thunder strikes, but she and Crash have no lingering fear of fire truck noises, which are far more fearsome to me. We try to keep the sliding glass door to the balcony open, so Rose has her perch, but the outside noise makes it next to impossible to watch TV (well, actually to hear the television) or even talk. The airplanes do not land between midnight and six am, but promptly at six, a steady line of them pass over, one every couple of minutes, so low I can read the lettering on their sides and so loud I can't hear myself stink. Several times each day, the fire brigade rushes out to blaring sirens and a startling kind of quacking. Deafening, but Rose just sits there placidly, twitching her ears. The first time they heard the fire trucks, they panicked and Rose wouldn't come out from under the bed for a day.
Rose is still that way with the thunder, shivering beneath the bed even the morning after. Crash has claimed the sole desk chair, which is so uncomfortable we rarely use it. It's upholstered in a thick mat of Crash hair, no matter how often we brush it clean.
Each evening, I pull out my ball of string with the feathery thingy attached to the end and play cat fishing. It's rather like fly fishing. I swing out an adequate length of line, then lazily pass the birdy in the direction of the cat, sharply pulling the string back to mimic a startled bird. Rose seems genuinely disinterested, groggy. And so does Crash until he just can't help respond to the killer inside. Suddenly, he'll sweep out a paw and tap the birdy, eyes gleaming. Further snaps bring more aggressive responses. He stands, crouches, moves to a more invisible position, batting, swatting, sometimes snagging his prey. When he does snag it, he chews briefly before letting loose, which prompts me to snap again and him to, instinctively I guess, swat and bat. He sometimes goes completely airborne in response, hungrily pawing the air.
Rose will play grace notes behind Crash's full concerto, slipping in the odd bat, the disinterested swat. I will sometimes land the bird on the glass-topped coffee table, where the cats can see it preening from the floor. They will slip into grooming or idle purring, disinterestedly eying the offender. Then, quite suddenly, one or the other or both will perform some gravity-defying pounce, moving from lounging to lunging without a clue that they had been winding up. Then the birdy gets chewed, and chewed good, before it mysteriously snaps back into frustrating flight. Swinging back into range, we get another couple of good leaps and catches before they relax and regain their distant disregard.
This can go on for quite a while, and they need the exercise. It's reassuring to see that they still have their reflexes, that apartment living hasn't eroded their instinct to kill feathery things. They mostly ignore the cat toys in favor of a good nap. Crash either on the chair by the desk or in the corner under the plastic tree, Rose on the balcony, on our side of the partition or on the neighbor's side. She slips between the two just as if she owned the place.
And maybe she does. She still pounces on Crash's head. Crash is still a ninny in response. Amy brushes the couch and Crash's chair as part of her morning ritual. I service their cat box and feed them the little kitty treat bribes they insist upon as the price of my every absence. Crash is restless in his long napping, jumping onto and back off of the too-big bed several times each night. He'll cosy in for a while, even manage some limited scream purring, but he paces through the night and dozes through the day, pacing in yowling frustration every morning (mourning?) around five. Rose refuses to be petted in the night, taking her accustomed corner at the bottom of Amy's side of the too-big bed, out of reach. Beyond consolation.
I try to explain that we've found them a wonderful new territory, even counting down the days remaining, but my promises can't bridge the present chasm. The tall glass wall between them and the outside world and the screaming noise of this strange place could convince anyone that they've moved to somewhere altogether too settled for any wild thing to thrive. The catnip banana is small consolidation, and seems like a kid's toy offered to console a thoroughly discouraged adult.
The world turns in fitful bursts, slowing terribly through the most difficult times and slipping almost silently through the sweet ones. This is a bitter time for these cats accustomed to sweetness. Their little crying pleads, which I try to mollify with soft smelly treats, might cease when they have some wild territory to roam again. Until then, they have only the silent dance of two inept apartment dwellers who speak in indecipherable dialect, dispose of the stuff they've already buried out of sight, and tap on the covers, calling them to come dream in a way too-big bed.
Carry Your Own Water, Cook Your Own Food refers to more than toting and frying. It relates to a self-sufficiency, responsible for its own sustenance, not dependent upon servants, slaves, or supplicants to tend to basic needs.
Whatever the water you drink, you must collect and carry this water before you can consume it. Drink trickles before accumulating into quenching quantities. The greatest thirsts parch far from any fountain.
Whatever nourishes you needs your hand on the spatula. Nourishment never comes ready-made, but demands some personal preparation. If you can't cook for yourself, you'll have to settle for raw or leftovers or someone else's sensibilities flavoring the sauce. None of these sustain.
Those eternally inconvenienced by the hassle of simply maintaining life might benefit from understanding that these struggles are not simply optional extra charges, but the very stuff of life itself. We each carry our own water and every one of us eventually understands that we just have to cook our own food. Let the dependency extend from the clay pit to the potter, but no further; from the farmer to the frying pay, but not beyond. The cup carrying what will cut your thirst and the fork transporting what will slake your hunger are yours and yours alone to manage.
I speak metaphorically, of course. Your cup and my cup might carry nothing remotely similar, yet we each find pride in our little ritual, inherited from our fathers and mothers, deeply personal, and just as essentially social. The soul of positive self esteem lives very near the most inane activities; carrying our own water, cooking our own food.
If only every map-maker was this thoughtful. It seems to me that every map suffers from the same shortcoming as Prague's. Whether it's a hastily-drawn scribble intended to guide someone to the neighborhood deli or some laminated intended-to-be permanent portrait of a city's streets, it's wrong, and wrong in some indefinable but none-the-less situationally significant aspect. The value of each incorrect projection ultimately depends upon the perspective of the user, not the accuracy of the map.
And there's no better perspective for any map user than the one reminding themselves that the guide they are following is wrong in some indefinable way. This to avoid over-dependence and to help each remain open to accepting the unavoidable misunderstandings encountered when following any map.
Mercator's Projection still says more about Mercator than it says about the world it projected. It extended more metaphor than accuracy, allowing relatively easy understanding and even easier misunderstanding. Bucky Fuller noted that on a sphere, there is no up and down, only over, yet we speak of North just as if it was up, and South, as if it was down, subtly classifying everyone who falls beneath us in a metaphor we created in the first place. How likely are we to catch on that our projection created the world we imagine we inhabit?
I've been reflecting on my relationship with maps as I learn to get around in a new city. Fortunately for me, my primary map is explicitly limited; it's missing significant parts of the territory I traverse. Traveling beyond the mapped area, I notice myself unplugging from my dependence on presumed predictability and relying upon my own senses and sensibilities, which prove remarkably reliable. There are no mountains here to provide permanent position for triangulation, and the sky hangs low over this pancake terrain. The sun is no reliable assistant, either. And, so far, I have no felt-sense jist of this place, making me a frequent fool to my intentions. I don't, for instance, know whether an on-ramp will be to the right or the left, so I stay in the middle until I can visually verify which, then squeeze into the proper lane, looking every bit like I'm taking cuts in line. Next time, if I remember, I'll know what my map could never disclose.
I am learning when I can depend upon my printed map and when I cannot. But there's no way that I can imagine to slip-stream this frustrating process. I am developing a relationship with this place, both hindered and helped by the kind assistance of McGraw-Hill, Google Maps, and the Metropolitan Transit Authority. I can only blame myself for the many misunderstandings, but there's really no blame to assign. I suffer from another case of the normals, hopeless-feeling at times, but not terribly serious.
I was wondering how any map-maker might more accurately represent how the street grid is actually used. There are eight-lane freeways here that have less utility than the two-lane side streets paralleling them. Where are the secret passages, the chutes in this Chutes and Ladders game? These, I realize, could never be represented on any but my own personal map. If the secret short-cuts were well known, they would provide no more respite than any eight-lane moving parking lot.
So we live and we learn, hoping to take advantage of what others have learned before us. And we will and we do learn from our living. We learn that our maps are wrong and, if we are very fortunate, that this little feature of life couldn't matter less. Yes, you'll find yourself going way out of your way at first, when your map demonstrates another limit to its reliability. You might notice yourself redrawing that part to replace line and color with cloud. Try again and maybe you'll resolve the disparity between what you expected and what you experienced. Or not. Just don't give up too soon. One or two or three or four experiences might well convince you that you cannot get there from here, but you probably can. Whether you feel stupid or smart when you finally figure out what the map-maker intended you to figure out in the first place is entirely in your hands.
Just remember, that map, that process, those instructions, even these directions are wrong in ways that no one could possibly predict beforehand. Keep trying.
