Gato Negro

We bought wine by the case, then
Gato Negro, acidic and cheap, little plastic black cats
Hanging from a red string
Trapped by the seal
You collected those cats in a chipped dish on the windowsill
When you had enough you strung them together
And hung them beneath the window
By the time we got a real cat, tortoiseshell not black,
They were gone
I never asked what you did with them
You might have told me
Probably I have forgotten
Your eye for detail
Was always much better than mine
As was your ability
To put things away
When they were no longer needed.

forecast and failure

Earlier this week word started to spread that there was the potential for a major, damaging windstorm in the Puget Sound region. The remnants of a typhoon out in the Pacific, it was expected to bring up to 70mph winds and lots of rain. As we had plans to drive to Portland to visit friends for the weekend, I spent several days agonizingly studying forecasts and following the track of the storm to try and gauge whether we should postpone the trip. The worst of the storm was due to hit Saturday night. At 6 p.m. Friday night I had decided to go for it, leaving Saturday morning and coming back Sunday afternoon. Two hours later I changed my mind, ultimately uncomfortable about the chances of I5 avoiding some major flooding.

Well, the storm didn’t happen. Oh, we got plenty of rain—I spent Saturday morning unclogging gutters in a torrential downpour, a singularly unpleasant experience—but the expected winds never materialized. There were few power outages and little damage. We could have gone to Portland and it would not have been a big deal. Yet I’m not angry or even annoyed.

Two things come to mind. The first is I made a decision based on what I thought the probability of bad conditions were at the time. I understood that it might not turn out to be a big deal, but in the end knowing I could reschedule the trip it didn’t seem worth the risk. If I was going to be worried about conditions the whole trip, it would defeat the point of relaxing with friends in the first place. Second, I learned a lot following this storm so closely and seeing how the forecasters adjusted, how the media covered it, and how it was communicated.

People want certainty with forecasts, but by their very nature they can’t be certain. I don’t view what happened as a failure on the part of the forecasters. They could have communicated the idea of probability better, and the actual TV news coverage (which I watched as an experiment, given that I rarely ever watch TV news) definitely built it into a hype event, which unfortunately is largely what TV news does. It’s a ratings game and in that sense, they did their job well. Sober discussion of uncertainty doesn’t have a place in the news cycle, which is one of the reasons we are in the mess we are in these days (but that’s a whole ‘nother topic.)

There’s a lot of bitching and moaning today about how the forecasters “failed.” But I’m not so sure they did, and even if they did—failure is not a bad thing. I’m guessing they learned from this. The next time such a scenario occurs the forecast will be that much closer to an accurate set of probabilities. That’s how we progress, whether we are forecasters or writers. “Failure” is an important teacher…and a misnomer. I have boxes of “failed” stories and poems—but every single one taught me something. Each one is a stone on the pathway to become a better writer. In that sense, they aren’t failures at all.

I have no great point with this ramble. I guess I just wish we were better at accepting that failure is a crucial part of learning. I find it weird to demonize forecasters just because your plans may have gotten cancelled/changed. It’s this rush to judgment that leaves me so deeply uncomfortable in 2016. When we lose the ability to discuss and learn, we have only open mouths and white noise.

16 Lines, Tuesday Afternoon

You begin with discipline
One of us cannot be poor
You begin with a question
One of us will ask for more.

This is how it is divided:
Yours, mine, theirs
A house with four corners,
Three levels and no stairs.

For each mention of health
Seven candles are lit
We feel the dissolving inside
The bones no longer fit.

We thought that we had years
Stretching before us, warm and strong
We have found the path to be cold
One of us always wrong.