Friday, May 16, 2003
readings
How I love her and need her undiscriminating heart. She looked over at me when the children in the picture brought in the kitten to show to their mother. M. loved the kitten and wanted me to love it. Even in the dark, I could sense that she felt the usual estrangement from me when I don't automatically love what she loves. Later, when we were having a drink in the station, she asked me if I didn't think that kitten was 'rather nice.' She didn't use the word 'cute' anymore. When did I ever frighten her out of her normal vocabulary? Bore that I am, I mentioned R. H. Blythe's definition of sentimentality: that we are being sentimental when we give to a thing more tenderness than God gives to it. I said (sententiously?) that God undoubtedly loves kittens, but not, in all probability, with Technicolor bootees on their paws. He leaves that creative touch to the script writers. M. thought this over, seemed to agree with me, but the 'knowledge' wasn't too very welcome. She sat stirring her drink and feeling unclose to me. She worries over the way her love for me comes and goes, appears and disappears. She doubts its reality simply it isn't as steadily pleasurable as a kitten. God knows it is sad. The human voice conspires to desecrate everything on earth.
—Salinger, "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters"
The greatest part about this story is treading through Buddy Glass' less poetic (though constructively funny) narrative, with all it's commas and abutments, to get to stuff like above: Seymour's voice, here from his diary, that is so much from a walking genious. I think I know about that estrangement and that icy word "unclose" pretty well, but I'm glad to have its truth affirmed.
How I love her and need her undiscriminating heart. She looked over at me when the children in the picture brought in the kitten to show to their mother. M. loved the kitten and wanted me to love it. Even in the dark, I could sense that she felt the usual estrangement from me when I don't automatically love what she loves. Later, when we were having a drink in the station, she asked me if I didn't think that kitten was 'rather nice.' She didn't use the word 'cute' anymore. When did I ever frighten her out of her normal vocabulary? Bore that I am, I mentioned R. H. Blythe's definition of sentimentality: that we are being sentimental when we give to a thing more tenderness than God gives to it. I said (sententiously?) that God undoubtedly loves kittens, but not, in all probability, with Technicolor bootees on their paws. He leaves that creative touch to the script writers. M. thought this over, seemed to agree with me, but the 'knowledge' wasn't too very welcome. She sat stirring her drink and feeling unclose to me. She worries over the way her love for me comes and goes, appears and disappears. She doubts its reality simply it isn't as steadily pleasurable as a kitten. God knows it is sad. The human voice conspires to desecrate everything on earth.
—Salinger, "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters"
The greatest part about this story is treading through Buddy Glass' less poetic (though constructively funny) narrative, with all it's commas and abutments, to get to stuff like above: Seymour's voice, here from his diary, that is so much from a walking genious. I think I know about that estrangement and that icy word "unclose" pretty well, but I'm glad to have its truth affirmed.
working with your mistakes:
So there's this theory when it comes to creating that you have to work with your mistakes. It applies more to painters in the classic sense; once you make that brushstroke, it's more or less there and you have to use it out of its imperfection and make it truer.
Word processors kind of eliminate this concept for writers, or at least tone it way down. Instant rewrites or changes or "undo editing" strokes make risks easier to take.
Well, let me just say that they haven't yet developed a hair-cut processor that allows for undo. Guess what I'm getting at? You got it.
I remember clearly saying "one inch" to which she replied "one all the way around?" with the buzzers almost salivating in her hand. "Yeah," I answered, sealing my hairs' fate. I hope for her sake that my initial reaction to her initial buzz wasn't too intensely of disgust. Apparently "one" refers to the number of the clipper attachment, and not the number of inches left after cutting. I've been to this same barbershop six or seven times, and I usually get the proficient and solid Mike. Today, a lady with glasses like mine named Tamee (?), through a miscommunication, butchered the patch right around my right ear. D'OH!
She dealt with the guilt complex by expertly balancing the blame between myself and herself, but I obviously stung a something sore deep within her barber's pysche. She wasn't exactly rude, but she was slightly shaken, and constantly reassured me that she would "blend it in." After the brief repair work, the fading in and out effect, I tried to mutter something to do with "fate, the haircut I guess I was meant to have today" but she gave me no ground, snapping something like "Here you go with the compensation..[inaudible]."
She did work with her mistake, and, yes, I am now shorter by layer of hair. It's oddest to step outside and feel the wind not in my hair but along my bristles. I'm glad I have a month to grow before I see my mother, because it might break her heart.
Here goes the cognitive dissonance part: You know, it's not really that bad. It might be a sign: I imagined all the pains of the heart and the ugly sins witnessed by some of that hair, and now it and they have been purged of me, symbolically.
Monks do it.
There's already a running joke between me and many of the junior boys about short haircuts and saluting and whatnot.
It's not a textbook buzzcut, but she worked a little desperation magic.
So I wear a hat (although none of them really make the lack of hair inconspicuous) for a few weeks.
I won't lie, I'm holding my breath and trying to "push them out," to use Ill Communication terminology, but apart from my final exams tomorrow, I don't have to be in School public until at least Wednesday, and until then I can wear hats safely.
And so the ego/dissonance resolve themselves in their see-saw dance, and guess what else I bought today while I was out running errands? Lots of booze for the summer, especially in anticipation of the Field Day Music Fest. By then, I might have locks again.
post script: This will not affect my future patronage. Now that I know that I need to ask for the "four" setting to get an inch of hair left, I will be more than happy to return. I've been indoctrinated, partly by phiLL's praising of old-school barbershops, to the sacrements of being barbered: the almost pragmatic approach, the crisp strokes, the neck-shave with warmed lather, the aftershave sting. A haircut is usually some of the most relaxing minutes of any month (not this time), and I look forward to the soothing rite nonetheless.
So there's this theory when it comes to creating that you have to work with your mistakes. It applies more to painters in the classic sense; once you make that brushstroke, it's more or less there and you have to use it out of its imperfection and make it truer.
Word processors kind of eliminate this concept for writers, or at least tone it way down. Instant rewrites or changes or "undo editing" strokes make risks easier to take.
Well, let me just say that they haven't yet developed a hair-cut processor that allows for undo. Guess what I'm getting at? You got it.
I remember clearly saying "one inch" to which she replied "one all the way around?" with the buzzers almost salivating in her hand. "Yeah," I answered, sealing my hairs' fate. I hope for her sake that my initial reaction to her initial buzz wasn't too intensely of disgust. Apparently "one" refers to the number of the clipper attachment, and not the number of inches left after cutting. I've been to this same barbershop six or seven times, and I usually get the proficient and solid Mike. Today, a lady with glasses like mine named Tamee (?), through a miscommunication, butchered the patch right around my right ear. D'OH!
She dealt with the guilt complex by expertly balancing the blame between myself and herself, but I obviously stung a something sore deep within her barber's pysche. She wasn't exactly rude, but she was slightly shaken, and constantly reassured me that she would "blend it in." After the brief repair work, the fading in and out effect, I tried to mutter something to do with "fate, the haircut I guess I was meant to have today" but she gave me no ground, snapping something like "Here you go with the compensation..[inaudible]."
She did work with her mistake, and, yes, I am now shorter by layer of hair. It's oddest to step outside and feel the wind not in my hair but along my bristles. I'm glad I have a month to grow before I see my mother, because it might break her heart.
Here goes the cognitive dissonance part: You know, it's not really that bad. It might be a sign: I imagined all the pains of the heart and the ugly sins witnessed by some of that hair, and now it and they have been purged of me, symbolically.
Monks do it.
There's already a running joke between me and many of the junior boys about short haircuts and saluting and whatnot.
It's not a textbook buzzcut, but she worked a little desperation magic.
So I wear a hat (although none of them really make the lack of hair inconspicuous) for a few weeks.
I won't lie, I'm holding my breath and trying to "push them out," to use Ill Communication terminology, but apart from my final exams tomorrow, I don't have to be in School public until at least Wednesday, and until then I can wear hats safely.
And so the ego/dissonance resolve themselves in their see-saw dance, and guess what else I bought today while I was out running errands? Lots of booze for the summer, especially in anticipation of the Field Day Music Fest. By then, I might have locks again.
post script: This will not affect my future patronage. Now that I know that I need to ask for the "four" setting to get an inch of hair left, I will be more than happy to return. I've been indoctrinated, partly by phiLL's praising of old-school barbershops, to the sacrements of being barbered: the almost pragmatic approach, the crisp strokes, the neck-shave with warmed lather, the aftershave sting. A haircut is usually some of the most relaxing minutes of any month (not this time), and I look forward to the soothing rite nonetheless.
Wednesday, May 14, 2003
more of what happened:
Still caught in the rush of finality:
My seniors are cramming and scrambling to construct their Spring Term final project (in lieu of a final exam): a staged dramatization of a scene from one of our studied works of literature.
Home middle school baseball game today; we played the team that beat us 21-7 and really took it to them. We still lost, but only 5-2! And we stranded at least 8 batters. Just bad luck, and all skill. Great pitching and fielding on both sides, and the ump even said it was a pleasure to call, given that some of the varsity game's he'd officialed had gone for 3 hours +. This was our last game of the year and we went all out. A double, a triple, five singles, 2 runs, and lots of focus and energy.
Tonight, I'm filling in as "worthy" drummer for the Rock/Jazz Improv group who are perhaps some of the most passionate but underskilled rock musicians I've worked with. Their weekly guitar teacher has worked some magic, and we're handling "Roadhouse Blues" and "Smells Like Teen Spirit" tonight as the penultimate act of the School's Spring Recital. It's worth it to see N---'s face (lead screaming vocals that almost approach singing), Tom's lead-guitar expressions, and his brother M--- on the bass. Gallibaster (one of my creative writers) rounds out on rhythm guitar and vocals with her bad self (she rocks). It's been great co-teaching them the non-technical side of band-life: respect, unity, the joy of jamming, musicianship, rowdy behavior. I have half a mind to, in typical rockstar style, not show up for sound check or even until right before we are to take the stage, then stagger in all nonchalantly and plug in and make a mythic rock-bomb. It would be part of their education.
We may not sound as tight as the other acts, but we'll have the most energy (and decibals). And if there's one thing I learned from my time in the briefly lived legendary cover- band Eighth Grade Dance*, energy is sometimes enough.
And tomorrow is the last day of classes!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[*Rumors of a reunion tour are still bogus, but allow them to tease you anyway.]
Still caught in the rush of finality:
My seniors are cramming and scrambling to construct their Spring Term final project (in lieu of a final exam): a staged dramatization of a scene from one of our studied works of literature.
Home middle school baseball game today; we played the team that beat us 21-7 and really took it to them. We still lost, but only 5-2! And we stranded at least 8 batters. Just bad luck, and all skill. Great pitching and fielding on both sides, and the ump even said it was a pleasure to call, given that some of the varsity game's he'd officialed had gone for 3 hours +. This was our last game of the year and we went all out. A double, a triple, five singles, 2 runs, and lots of focus and energy.
Tonight, I'm filling in as "worthy" drummer for the Rock/Jazz Improv group who are perhaps some of the most passionate but underskilled rock musicians I've worked with. Their weekly guitar teacher has worked some magic, and we're handling "Roadhouse Blues" and "Smells Like Teen Spirit" tonight as the penultimate act of the School's Spring Recital. It's worth it to see N---'s face (lead screaming vocals that almost approach singing), Tom's lead-guitar expressions, and his brother M--- on the bass. Gallibaster (one of my creative writers) rounds out on rhythm guitar and vocals with her bad self (she rocks). It's been great co-teaching them the non-technical side of band-life: respect, unity, the joy of jamming, musicianship, rowdy behavior. I have half a mind to, in typical rockstar style, not show up for sound check or even until right before we are to take the stage, then stagger in all nonchalantly and plug in and make a mythic rock-bomb. It would be part of their education.
We may not sound as tight as the other acts, but we'll have the most energy (and decibals). And if there's one thing I learned from my time in the briefly lived legendary cover- band Eighth Grade Dance*, energy is sometimes enough.
And tomorrow is the last day of classes!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[*Rumors of a reunion tour are still bogus, but allow them to tease you anyway.]
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
some of what I know currently:
Even in these last days of teaching, when many have taken a vow of apathy, exhaustion yet rules.
About a month ago, the School's salad bar began featuring daily PB & J, and like many students, I'm hooked.
I'm MOD today, that monthly day of special chores after which I'm always pooped.
Someday I'll write a sketch of the man I coach softball with. He's shrewd and athletic for being late-forties, and he's (at least until the end of the school year) the manager of operations here, meaning he's in charge of money and maintenance. He's firmly a part of that brotherhood of male machismo, a blue-collar gentlemen, a real baseball player. He drives safely fast, threading the LI parkway traffic like a mad disciple. He plays poker like a friendly stickler and treats whiskey like an old friend.
It's time to go run a dinner.
I want you to call me tonight.
Even in these last days of teaching, when many have taken a vow of apathy, exhaustion yet rules.
About a month ago, the School's salad bar began featuring daily PB & J, and like many students, I'm hooked.
I'm MOD today, that monthly day of special chores after which I'm always pooped.
Someday I'll write a sketch of the man I coach softball with. He's shrewd and athletic for being late-forties, and he's (at least until the end of the school year) the manager of operations here, meaning he's in charge of money and maintenance. He's firmly a part of that brotherhood of male machismo, a blue-collar gentlemen, a real baseball player. He drives safely fast, threading the LI parkway traffic like a mad disciple. He plays poker like a friendly stickler and treats whiskey like an old friend.
It's time to go run a dinner.
I want you to call me tonight.
Sunday, May 11, 2003
fakury:
My ruminations on A Mighty Wind have been published over on The PhiLL(er) for anyone interested. In brief, it wasn't as strong as its predecesors but it had something new and redeeming...
comments welcome (even if merely to express ennui). And thanks phiLL.
My ruminations on A Mighty Wind have been published over on The PhiLL(er) for anyone interested. In brief, it wasn't as strong as its predecesors but it had something new and redeeming...
comments welcome (even if merely to express ennui). And thanks phiLL.
Softball Travel Tape #2:
Side A
1. Blackalicious "First in Flight"
2. Blackalicious "Green Light: Now Begin"
3. Jurassic 5 "Great Expectations"
4. Beck "Hotwax"
5. Flaming Lips "Yoshime Battles the Pink Robots pt. 1"
6.Flaming Lips "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots pt. 2"
7. Breeders "Divine Hammer"
8. Bjork "Crying"
9. Dance Hall Crashers "Buried Alive"
10. Ash "Walking Barefoot"
11. Foo Fighers "Call to Arms"
12. Radiohead "Just"
13. The Four Seasons "Walk Like a Man"
Side B
1. The Police "Walking on the Moon"
2. 311 "Strong All Along"
3. 311 "Amber" (our catcher's name)
4. Travis "Hit Me Baby One More Time" (live)
5. Liz Phair "Polyester Bride"
6. Ben Folds Five "Army"
7. David Bowie "Beauty and the Beast"
8. Weezer "Starlight"
9. Yo La Tengo "Be Thankful for What You've Got"
10. Miles Davis "So What?"
11. Semisonic "Closing Time"
[yeah, I know I borrowed a lot from the Newell 5 Spring 2002 soundtrack, but only because I had a lot of such mp3s burned onta a cd that was used like suntan lotion at Flynn Pool last summer. And I can write and remember this without too much pain, now, despite that it's all gonna be different this summer...]
Side A
1. Blackalicious "First in Flight"
2. Blackalicious "Green Light: Now Begin"
3. Jurassic 5 "Great Expectations"
4. Beck "Hotwax"
5. Flaming Lips "Yoshime Battles the Pink Robots pt. 1"
6.Flaming Lips "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots pt. 2"
7. Breeders "Divine Hammer"
8. Bjork "Crying"
9. Dance Hall Crashers "Buried Alive"
10. Ash "Walking Barefoot"
11. Foo Fighers "Call to Arms"
12. Radiohead "Just"
13. The Four Seasons "Walk Like a Man"
Side B
1. The Police "Walking on the Moon"
2. 311 "Strong All Along"
3. 311 "Amber" (our catcher's name)
4. Travis "Hit Me Baby One More Time" (live)
5. Liz Phair "Polyester Bride"
6. Ben Folds Five "Army"
7. David Bowie "Beauty and the Beast"
8. Weezer "Starlight"
9. Yo La Tengo "Be Thankful for What You've Got"
10. Miles Davis "So What?"
11. Semisonic "Closing Time"
[yeah, I know I borrowed a lot from the Newell 5 Spring 2002 soundtrack, but only because I had a lot of such mp3s burned onta a cd that was used like suntan lotion at Flynn Pool last summer. And I can write and remember this without too much pain, now, despite that it's all gonna be different this summer...]
