music: Blind Faith- Blind Faith
I’m pleasantly surprising myself as of late. It’s pushing 1am, I’m still awake with a full school day tomorrow, and moreover I’m just getting home from birthday celebrations at a karaoke bar. (Side note: it was my first time at a karaoke bar, and somewhere in between “Livin’ On A Prayer,” “Don’t Stop Believing,” and “Bohemian Rhapsody,” I was floored by the power of music to bring complete strangers together. I’m sure the alcohol helped too.) So all this in and of itself is quite surprising on several levels, but speaks volumes about the corner I’ve been turning in relation to my relationship with my job (more on this sometime very soon). It also indicates a shift in my priorities and a refocusing of my goals, namely that in the midst of a life of service to those who desperately need it, I am giving myself permission to loosen up on the reins, relax, have fun, treat myself nicely. It’s hard, but I’m getting the hang of it.
The real highlight of the night came just after, when I was suiting up to go home earlier than most. I am required to be on point at 8:00 AM tomorrow, after all, and just being out for a little bit on a Tuesday night is a significant accomplishment in my book. But as I was just about to peel out and head home, I get a call from my friends Adam and Rose, who had just liberated over 300 pints of ice cream and were planning on giving them all away to the good folks on the streets of San Francisco. It was more legit than it sounds; Adam works in a food store and they had to throw out their stock of ice cream because of power outages. Instead, Adam grabbed it all and thought it best to spread the sugary wealth. They needed some help pushing the wheelbarrow of ice cream around, and requested my presence. I live a life of service to others, after all, and felt obliged to help. I rolled west on Haight and ran into Adam, Rose, a fairly full wheelbarrow, and a small crowd of ice cream connoisseurs. The three of us spent about 45 minutes emptying the wheelbarrow and putting ice cream in the hands of anyone who would take it. We got some folks who were to streetsmart and wary for their own good, but most everyone we ran into was very excited to score a free pint of ice cream. The range of folks was astounding: bargoers, homeless guys, convenience store clerks, bus drivers, couples on their way back from dinner, even police officers. Everyone wondered why it was happening, what was in it for us, whether it was stolen, and the like. We found that people were much more likely to take the ice cream if we were eating it as well, which was just fine. I was smiling and laughing the whole time.
I was taken back to younger and simpler days, summers spent in the parking lot bazaars of music festivals and Phish concerts, back to an ethic cultivated at summer camp, back to a more innocent and idealistic mindset where talking to strangers is encouraged, giving is commonplace, and the moment is what matters most. I’ve gotten very wrapped up as of late in my supposed obligations and in being careful to take care of myself so I’m able to meet those obligations. This fall, Missa Toss would frown severely on carousing in the streets until the wee hours with school the next morning. I still have obligations and things that need my energy and attention, but I’ve recently placed myself on the top of that list. Tonight, thanks to a serendipitous phone call, what I needed most was to give out free ice cream to some of the people with whom I share my city.
When the wheelbarrow was emptied, Rose and Adam opened the back of their truck, revealing two more times the amount than we gave away. They rolled out from the Haight to the Mission and the Castro. I, still having to teach tomorrow, went home with some frozen party favors, but I think I gained far more than ice cream. I’m still smiling.
“and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” -John Lennon
music: Curtis Mayfield - Superfly (25th Anniversary Deluxe Addition)
My friend Jordan Carlos has become, by all measures, a successful comedian and actor. I remember seeing him in shows in college with the on-campus improv troupe. (There is, alledgedly, a very funny script floating around somewhere about Jordan, our friend Patrick, and I trying to move into our apartments before senior year of college…but I’ve yet to see product.) I remember seeing him perform in New York City a bunch of years back, some amateur night with a $10 cover and a two drink minimum, and I remember been pretty impressed with him then. I remember walking by a TV in a bar at one point and flipping out because Jordan was on TV, starring in a prime-time-major-network commercial. I remember people talking about Jordan being on The Daily Show (or so I heard; not watching TV leaves me high and dry in matters of popular culture). By most measures, Jordan made it as a comedian and actor, and on a nationally recognized level.
He is a funny guy and a great performer, has been for as long as I’ve known him. Most of his scripted humor is based around race, specifically his being a black man living and working in a white man’s world, and being the “preppiest black guy in the free world.” This sort of comedy depends on deep-set unspoken stereotypes. Because he would be the first to admit to crowds that he does not act black, he gains a certain leverage to be able to point out incongruities in stereotypes of black/white relations in America. The fact that mostly white audiences are perfectly aware of these oft-unspoken stereotypes, and the fact that they are spoken out loud, into a microphone, out loud, by a person of color, somehow has made it all safe to laugh at. To an extent, Jordan depends on those deep-set, unspoken stereotypes to be there, because without them his jokes are not funny. Having gone to a prestigious college with Jordan, one largely symbolic of the power of the dominant culture in America, and then having worked for teenagers in the inner city, gives me some understanding of the two cultures Jordan pits against each other and embodies simultaneously.
There is at least a grain of truth behind every joke. Even in college Jordan, one of the few black faces on campus, was refining the characterization of a black person living in a white world. Even then he was the first to voice the incongruity of it all, and even then it was done with humor and good intention. But I think it has taken its toll. Some time last November, around the same time of Michael Richards’s racist explosion, Jordan’s writing online got a little more serious. A couple weeks ago, I understand, Jordan published a piece in the Washington Post, revealing a more somber perspective on his perfession and alledged success. Here, now, is something new: being black in a white world is not as funny as Jordan has made it out to be for all us white folks in the audience. And moreover, the black song-and-dance that entertains mostly white audiences might just be subtle form of cultural oppression and inequality masqurerading as comedy. This is most assuredly not funny.
Jordan keeps a blog. Up until recently he’s posted about upcoming shows, tried out pieces of material, vented frustrations about being a young (black) entertainer. The last couple posts have taken a different tone, however; Jordan has seemingly reached a reckoning. In the last couple of posts, Jordan has positioned himself in opposition to those with whom he previously sought to join. Before, being a preppy black guy was funny. Now, being a preppy black guy is becoming a vehicle for social polemic. I suppose that one can publicly shame oneself for so long before one wears onself down. Jordan might have hit that point. Now that he is breaking into the spotlight proper, and the stakes are a bit higher, things are taking on more significance.
There has been a lot of popular self-deprecating comedy used as satire as of late (Chapelle and Borat come to mind). But in these cases, the self-deprecation has a higher purpose than just laughs, it’s meant to hold a mirror up to those that practice ignorance, racism, homophobia, xenophobia, and other sociological horrors. The problem is that much of the time the satire is too good, and the larger point is lost beneath the humor. Moreover, just because you know better doesn’t make it permissible. That Jordan has given himself a moment to pause and consider this, and then spoken about it on the national level, is commendable. Not just commendable, important. Not just important, vital. Vital. Someone has to say something, and if people are willing to listen to Jordan and laugh, I hope they are willing to listen to him tell them the tragedy of why it’s so funny.
Jordan’s January 10th post, the first following publication of his piece in the newspaper, takes the tone of social activist more than entertainer. As a teacher I have a job where people listen to me (well, most of the time anyway) and I feel an obligation to use that influence to further socially just causes. I think and hope that Jordan is positioning himself in similar ways now. It is, of course, is a big professional risk for a black man trying to be critical of and simultaneously break into a culture of power, one that I (and any other white person) can’t empathize with. But it is vital. Whites have no way of empathizing with this. Whites can not (read: are not allowed) to be critical of this, that is, if we want to actually see social justice being done. It’s inspiring to see a friend of mine grapple with quesitons of race, racial identity, and race relations, and assuring to see it being done with a degree of skill and poise that leaves people laughing instead of arguing. But at some point, if the message really is to stick, things have to stop being funny. That endeavour represents an enormous occupational hazard for Jordan, but one I support fully. There is at least a grain of truth behind every joke. My hope is that one day Jordan will get up and do his schtick and have nobody in the audience laugh. Not because he isn’t funny anymore, but because the underlying message in his jokes will have been, at last, successfully delivered.
music: none
My roommate Jenn asked me what I would miss most about Boston a couple days ago. There’s a lot that’s happened in the past 5 years here, and a lot that I will miss, but the one thing that stood out in my mind was the biosphere, the music studio the basement of 12 Curtis. Every week (or almost every week) for the past year and a half I’ve descended to the basement and played my heart out. The biosphere has become a cruciible of artistic output, and has spurred me to push my music. What was accomplished down there isn’t groundbreaking or earth shattering on a consumable level, but the biosphere sessions hold a very significant place in my personal musical growth. Even looking back on the first biosphere sessions in February of 2005, it’s amazing how much has changed.
Two years ago the back of our basement was filled with tons of scrap, 30 years-worth of collected waste in a neglected triple-decker. The fall of 2004 saw a collective form here; 12 Curtis ceased to be three separate apartment units and became a house. With that, an opportunity: transform the basement into usable space. Ron and Tim cleared some space for workshop projects, and Peet started a modest bike repair center. Matt dreamt bigger than that; he singlehandedly designed and built a room in which music could be made. I initially thought he was thinking too big; just a cleared-out corner would be enough. But Matt persisted with minimal help and by November a room had in fact taken form. It was an incredible gift, although I did not know it at the time. Little by little the Biosphere flushed itself out, with gear and decor being added at a healthy rate until the room was packed with amplifiers, speakers, drums, microphones, posters, a mixer, guitar stands, and most importantly, people to use all the equipment on a regular basis. We had a fully-functioning music studio right in our basement, and roommates who not only tolerated the racket but encouraged it. The biosphere became my favorite room in the house; walking through the double doors was a transformation. You could leave the rest of the world out there. The biosphere was its own world, a haven.
We had a party at 12 Curtis this weekend, and a well-attended one at that. It was the final time I would play in the Biosphere. Because of this the night was bittersweet, a celebration with a tinge of nostalgia. One of my musical projects had ended almost a month previous, so it was left to Matt, Sebastian, Duncan, and me to close things out down there. I was glad to be able to do it with witnesses, to share what had been going on down there for the past year and a half. We had our last gig on our home turf, in the most comfortable setting to make music that I could hope for. We put up a good effort, at this point so locked in to each other that music came as second nature, and people responded positively. Never before had I seen people dancing (and dancing hard!) to music that I made, and I was floored because of it. We ended modestly, with a small sigh and without much fanfare, and that was that. Last Saturday my time in the biosphere came to an end.
I can’t say how much more my mental health would have suffered had i not been able to go down to the biosphere, plug in, and play whenever I felt like making music. I can’t say how thankful I am that there was a place to play (and play loud!) right in my own house. I’ve meticulously archived all the biosphere sessions, and can say that I’m very proud of the music I’ve made down there. I can’t see a music-making situation as perfect as the biosphere wherever I end up. Most likely I’ll have to rent space, travel with considerable effort to some place in order to play. I still don’t know how good I had it. But it is time to move on from my basement, I think. Says Anansi: The important thing about songs is that they’re like stories. They don’t mean a damn unless there’s people listening to them. I’ll continue to play music, probably for the rest of my life. I hope to get into some inspiring and challenging musical arrangements, but I doubt that anything will be as familiar, accessible, and comfortable as the biosphere.
I spent a couple hours this morning breaking down my gear and carrying it out of that room. Of all the uprooting that has to happen with a cross-country move, I think that moving out of the Biosphere will be the hardest.
music: Top Shelf- 12/3/2005, Boston, MA
Five years ago this week I woke up, packed all my worldly possessions into a U-Haul truck, and drove them from a barn-like yellow house on 276 George Street in Providence, RI to a funny-smelling yellow house in Jamaica Plain, MA. When I finally returned the U-Haul truck and that monumental day had ended, I can remember siting on the couch-come-cat scratch post in JP in complete stupifying shock. College had ended. The total distance spanned that day was probably less than 50 miles, but in more personal terms, that drive from Providence to Boston was an ocean crossing into a new and unfamiliar continent. Before the final semester of my senior year of college, I’d never really given much thought to what came after. Five years completely removed from such a rich personal pantheon, I realize that I’ve been subsisting on that strange new continent called adulthood long enough to stake a claim to it. This weekend marked the completion of my fifth year of life after college. And to commemorate such a herculean act of survival: an honorable invitation from the old homestead to come back and celebrate the passage of time with old friends.
Because of the manner in which things ended for most of the class of 2001, things were very open-ended. There were very few acknowledgements amongst the faithful of how the events of late May, 2001 would mark a very significant end to the what will prove to be one of the best experiences of our lives. There would, of course, be no going home again, because home was not as much a collection of buildings on campus as it was the collection of people who worked and learned and slept in those buildings. To have a critical mass of those people in that place once again was positive beyond all imagining. There were friends who I haven’t seen since our own graduation, people I’d largely taken for granted during our time in college, and having so many of them reunited in one place was a testament to what we had, as well as a reminder to me that I am a very lucky person to be able to contribute to that environment. I have never experienced so many inspiring and amazing people in such close proximity as I did in college.
This from my notebook on Satruday afternoon:We intersect with others’ lives and often take the time we share with them for granted. Being back here is a blast in the face of how much we share with others and how quicky and completely it can slip away. I’m sitting on Brown’s Main Green right now, on a bench next to Sayles Hall, looking at the graduation stage. Alumni of all ages and experiences walk past me, each reminded in their own way of a time they shared with others here and those experiences and people that defined four of the most incredible years of their lives. I miss what I had here now that I’m back in it, immersed in it. I’ve almost forgotten, and it is supremely bittersweet. Beautiful because of right now, this moment, this weekend; sad that the once brilliant intersection of my life with college has passed.
In a very palpable way this revisiting of the place that was my world, for better worse, allows me to let go of it a little more. Seeing this place, knowing that I can still look in from the outside (and that I really can only look in from the outside) and more importantly realizing that I still can connect with those who have left with me gives me some sense of finality. Brown was the reason why I moved East. This is the beginning of the end of my time here.
One of the highlights of commencement weekend is a highly ritualized and traditional procession that seniors, alumni, and faculty participate in. The procession inverts at one point as to allow you to acknowledge and applaud everybody else that is walking. It is an incredibly meaningful occassion, and above all else ties you into a very disperse-yet-strong community. For most of us seeing the head of the procession lead by what remains of the classes from the early 1900’s is an incredibly moving experience. Alumni are always welcome to participate in the procession, although it is only usually done when your class has a significant reunion anniversary. This year, despite the best of intentions, I did not walk. In its place I hauled to Middletown, CT to witness my younger sister participate in her commencement exercises. It was a beautiful and sympbolically appropriate way to wrap up the weekend to witness one of my family in exactly the same place I was five years ago: saying goodbye to a blissful world and expecting great things from the next, on the brink of a voyage to some unexplored continent. Reunions are for celebrating what was, and for that they are amazing and beautiful, but without starting something new from a weekend of reunion something is lost. Commencement is, after all, a beginning. For my sister, there definitely is a new beginning. And after 5 years of life out of college, perhaps there is one for me as well.
music: Bad Livers- Industry and Thrift
Not having a TV has left me out of the reality show maelstrom. But a couple months back my roommate Gina came home with some wild news: she was cast in a reality show. For real. She signed her life away for three weeks, and off Gina went for most of last October. None of us really knew what was going on that whole time. The people that ran the show didn’t give Gina much to go on. I don’t know if she knew where she was going to go when she got on the plane. She’s been very tight-lipped (for legal reasons) since getting back, and we at the 1-2 have been following Gina’s adventures for those three weeks on TV of all places. As a result, I have been taking a rare dip into the world of television to support Gina’s efforts with horses, bulls, ropes, and chaps. Gina’s moments of fame on Cowboy U, a reality show that throws city slickers onto a working cowboy ranch, were great, and her adventures chronicled, packaged, and dealt out quite deliberately (albeit in a skewed, edited-for-TV format) every week for the past month or so.
I guess that the angle that Cowboy U took was to let the city slickers flounder about which would give the country folk regulars at CMT something to laugh about. The eight city folk that are featured in this particular reality show received minimal training, an abundance of ridicule, and suffered through a rigorous ranch and farm schedule, all for the entertainment of those with wranglers and big belt buckles. Some contestants deserved every ounce of ridicule they got, without a doubt, but a couple, Gina included, tried their hardest to show all the real cowboys out there what was possible with a little effort. It seems that the premises of almost all reality shows, from the very beginning of the phenomenon, was to put people way outside their comfort zones and watch how they adapted and reacted to others in the same conditions. Gina would be the first to admit that she had never done anything like what she did in Oklahoma before, but knowing that made her tenure on a working ranch that much more respectable. She was also more than happy to point out how the CMT editing team put certain spins on what really happened, which was quite educational.
She didn’t win the grand prize, but cameras and prize money aside, I think she found something very valuable out there in cattle country. One is a certain perspective you really can’t get without picking up and moving far away from home for a little bit. The range is expansive, and those enormous skies (which apparently are not cloudy all day) lend you an idea of just how big the horizon really is. Two is a sense of empowerment. Cameras and television aside, Gina got an amazing chance to do things most citybound tenderfoots would never think of trying. From my eye, she came back from Oklahoma a little more confident and self-assured (and also came back with some sweet carhartt gear and a real-deal cowboy hat). Cowboy U was very much like an Outward Bound type experience for Gina; only difference is it was all recorded and televised.
I haven’t caught all the episodes, only the first three acutally, but there are copies floating around the house. The actual shows, I think, are secondary. I couldn’t work myself into planning my life around TV shows so easily. If her role on Cowboy U gives her a leg up in the world of acting and dance then all the better, but I’d like to think that three weeks working on a ranch out west did things for my roommate beyond her 15 minutes of fame. I’m pretty sure it did.
music: Strangefolk- 9/1/2002 (Acoustic Set)
“I need to reclaim my identity this weekend,” says Reuben as I swung by his house in Bayside late-night on Wednesday. It was thanksgiving weekend and we were back in Milwaukee. And he was correct: the weekend was all about reclaiming an identity.
The past two or so weeks have been hazy and I have been in varying states of fugue. This is mostly due to my having dental surgery last week-a lovely affair that involved cutting a rectangle of flesh out of the roof of my mouth and sewing it onto my lower gums. I tried to plow through the ordeal and carry on with business-as-usual, but was stymied by pain and complications involving blood blisters. As a result I spent a lot of time convalescing, sucking down applesauce, carrot juice, and avocados almost exclusively. I was underfed and in a good amount of pain and got bent out of shape in a pretty nasty way. The trip home, on a very simple level, was about reintroducing solid food (and good food!) to my diet, and working myself out of invalid status.
Far be it from me to function on one simple level. Digging a little deeper on the flight home I flashed realization of being uprooted and disconnected from my immediate reality in Boston. Many of my people have cleared out this year, I have been spending the majority of my time hunkered down with red pens and lesson plans, I have been doing all I can to avoid the those attributes that draw most people to Boston in the first place. My jaw has been clenched and eyebrows have been furrowed more often than not. I have caught myself anticipating a change on the horizon, waiting for something, but of course there is nothing that will happen unless I make it happen. I landed in Milwaukee very glad to be there, and more than that, very glad to not be in Boston.
I found the place I’m from to be something other than a static entity for the first time since I left. There is a massive push for civic improvement and urban renewal in Milwaukee right now; things I remember being there from my childhood are being ripped out, redone, and fixed up. Even my house is undergoing amazing changes. Mom and Rich are working on an addition to the house that adds a ridiculous amount of space onto it, for the better I think, but it rocks the foundations of what I take to be my home. On a smaller scale the furniture that I remember from growing up is slowly being phased out. It’s just the next step in a series of changes that are transforming home into something more and more foreign. It’s not like I’ve had a room there for years. I never felt more like a visitor at 7630 than this year.
But identity has less to do with the physical plant of Brew City and more to do with the cast of characters that took me by storm this weekend. It happens every thanksgiving break, and I know it will, but I still can’t prepare for it. Seeing the family is a rollercoaster of action and emotion, a tug-of-war of needs, desires, obligations, emotions, and relationships. The extended family is much more simple in many ways, and visiting with family was spectacular this year. It seems to get better as I get older, and seems to be more potent the less I am in Milwaukee.
The nights in Milwaukee hardly end after family dinners, and many of the most honest moments concerning my rediscovering where I’m from happen later into the night at some of the fine midwestern drinking establishments that are strategically placed every block or two. There is an understanding among different social circles that certain places are designated meeting places, and I spent nights bouncing between these places, planning on meeting up with some key members of the inner sanctum but fully expecting to run into more peripheral friends and acquaintances from years past. The camp/high school balancing act was once again carefully staged and executed pretty well. Friends from high school continue to be able to pick up exactly where we left off last time without skipping a beat. And the camp gathering this year was brilliant. More often than not I ended up finding a camp gathering far too young, attended more by my campers than my peers. This year, though, a core group of my peers gathered and celebrated the fact that we somehow have managed to transcend the fact that we all met at camp, and that “camp friends” were now just friends. Through no planning on my own I ended up running into a couple of people that I haven’t seen for about 10 years, and was really glad I did. I was left beaming, proud to know such great people and feeling very lucky for it. My people are good people, no matter how long it has been since we last crossed paths. People have done amazing and not-so-amazing things with themselves, people have changed in some ways, people have moved all over the country and world, but given a couple days to catch up none of that mattered much. My friends and family-these people have a lot to do with my own identity because of the past that we’ve shared. Although that is a hard pill to swallow sometimes I really enjoy getting slapped across the face with it.
I arrived in Boston this afternoon completely exhausted, but feeling better than I have in weeks. And not because I was back in Boston. After a weekend in Milwaukee I felt once again connected to something, even though that something is nebulous and itself evolving. CJ, whose presence in the absence of his family stood testament to the power of all his friends, showed me an internet site this weekend. It’s based on this premise-a dynamic web of identities all connected to one another. A Venn Diagram of incalculable proportions. Taken in sum, the web of people and names and places could represent something like an identity.
One of my tragic flaws is the ability to focus almost exclusively on my immediate present and forget about people and places distant and far-flung, but I was reminded this weekend that who I am has everything to do with where I’m from. Perhaps some of the struggle and disconnection I’ve experienced in Boston has been because I’ve not fully grasped that point.
Back to it tomorrow, and I can’t say I’m excited about it. I can’t say I’m all that excited to be here right now. But as Reuben and I were driving back from the East Side of Milwaukee early this morning, we both agreed that to whatever extent possible identities were reclaimed. And that is reason to give thanks.
I can not have a future ‘till I embrace my past
I promise to pursue the challenge; time is going fast
music: Orchestra Baobob- Pirate’s Choice
My friend Guy got married this weekend. It was a distinctly Guy and Katya affair, entirely homegrown and tailored to the tastes and idiosyncracies of the bride and groom. They dressed down by wedding standards, scripted the whole ceremony themselves, asked friends to share thoughts, meditations and blessings, enlisted Katya’s brother to officiate, enlisted their close friends here to help with the organizing and grunt work, and ended their ceremony with an exit to the reception on a tandem bike. The service was held in a small glade in the arboretum and guests stood in the shade of towering oaks and pines and sat on blankets and camp chairs. It was non-denominational, non-traditional, but to those of us who know Guy and Katya, it all was perfectly as it should be.
Two thoughts kept bobbing to the service over the course of the weekend. The first was on the nature of weddings, and the second was on the nature of marriage.
Weddings, by all rights, should reflect the people getting married. It is their moment, by all rights. I can’t quite wrap my head around the possibility of my own wedding, for no other reason than it would really be the only way I’d have nearly everyone I care about in one place. That in and of itself is overwhelming. But to the point: weddings should reflect those who are getting married. That’s why Guy and Katya’s wedding was so great-everything made total sense in the context of the two of them. From my perspective at least. I had no problem wearing a short sleeve shirt, straw hat, and sitting in my Crazy Creek, and I certainly did not have a problem being outside in the Arboretum despite the searing heat. That little park has always been a special place for our circle ever since Guy showed it to me some time in the summer of 2001; now that little stretch in between the wedding site and the sequoia tree is something like sacred. That the older crowd was obliging to Guy and Katya’s plan was a testament to the two of them and the community behind them. They acknowledged this; during the ceremony they pointed out that this is not the start of something new, but a recognition of something that already is. They, like most couples that go through weddings, are already married for all intents and purposes. To my eye, the formality of it all was exhilirating and affirming to them, but wholly unnecessary in terms of the pith of their relationship.
The second point then: marriage. It’s an incredible gesture towards another, possibly the most incredible on the good side of human emotion and action, something that befuddles and astounds me. As a child I thought that once you were married you were inexorably swallowed by your identifying role as husband or wife (which might be more true as your role as mom or dad, but that’s another topic). But as I aged I slowly pieced together that your life as an individual is not over when you are married, even though you have willingly sacrificed a good deal of independence. For as long as I’d known Guy I’d thought of him as quite an independent soul, a spirit unhindered by what others thought and said of him, an individual who has little problem forging his own path in this world and walking it alone if need be. Katya I only have known because of Guy, but I’d imagine falls more along the same axis. That they chose not to walk it alone indicates a great deal about the power of human relationships relative to individual experience. But it also indicates that the constraints of marriage do not have to be as rigid as I imagined them as a child, and that the couple who is married has license to make their own parameters as to how they will operate relative to each other. I have yet to reach that point. It’s still very hard for me to imagine spending the rest of my life with one other person, but at the same time I think the summer’s coming adventures will reveal a great deal to me about my own independence, freedom, and relationships.
I met Guy in the summer of 2001 when he allowed me to stay in the uninsulated corner of his attic for very cheap. I arrived at the stoop of a yellow house in Jamaica Plain a couple days after I graduated from college. At the time Peet and Tim were friends of friends and Guy was one degree removed beyond that. Despite discovering that I had cat allergies, that summer brought Guy, Doug, Peet, and Tim into my personal narrative and confirmed a lot about how I now choose to live my life. The Chowdahaus, with Guy at the helm, became my home here in Boston. At the time we were all men in various states of transition. When our living arrangement dissolved there Guy pointed out that in the end, it was just practice, implying that we would move on to more mometous experiences in creating a home. Practice, indeed. But Guy was right. Perhaps it had something to do with Katya coming along right at the end of Chowdahaus. Now, by appropriate and formal acknowledgement to their community, Guy and Katya make a go of it for real. I have the utmost faith that their choice to spend their lives together is better than good. Like their wedding, it is exactly as it should be.
music: John Coltrane- The Prestige Sessions, d.16
There was this guy I knew marginally in college named Kent. We gave each other the noncommital nod as we walked past each other on the Main Green. We played pool at the GCB every now and then. He was something of a campus character, as in everyone knew who he was and that he was completely rediculous but didn’t know him really. And by all measures he was completely rediculous. Kent used to publish his own newspaper called The Kent and illegally distribute it at the dining hall and post office. He used to arrange for and announce events featuring himself. He used to hold contests whose prize was a date with Kent. He slid his way to the front of commencement ceremonies one year (feigning a physical handicap I think) and proceeded to whip out a bullhorn and make a speech to all assembled for such a solemn and dignified event about how he was having a graduation party or something. He was carted off by school police for that one. Kent was by all rights “that guy,” somewhat of a villiage idiot on campus. He was a fringe acquaintance of mine, probably of a lot of people, and after he and I left college I all but forgot about the delightful slice of irreverence he brought to campus. I knew he’d moved to NYC and still was in touch with my buddy Jordan, I’d heard something about trying to make it onto Saturday Night Live, and stand-up comedy, and this-and-that.
Today I found out that Kent has written a book, a full-length book, and to my complete shock it’s been published by Random House. The topic: Yo Mama. Apparently Kent has successfully written and published an entire book that makes fun, busts on, and denigrates Yo Mama. What we at Brown knew is now for the world to read: Kent Roberts’ A Portrait of Yo Mama as a Young Man. Apparently Kent is also working on a solo show and writing for the Onion. Not too shabby for the villiage idiot.
What was so striking to me is that Kent was more often than not written off as a crackpot in college. He was followed with a roll of the eyes and a There-He-Goes-Again. But Kent kept going, and it’s clear now that the irreverence and wierdness were part of a larger scheme for him, a carefully crafted master plan, all those little stunts really resume builders and rehearsal. Kent has actually made a career out of it. Most people at school didn’t think of him as much more than a novelty, Kent was earnest and serious about his performances the whole time. It paid off; now he’s getting paid to pull the same crap on a much larger scale. And good for him. We all have to do something with our time. If anything I’m glad that he didn’t buckle under pressure to conform and didn’t give in to the need for a steady paycheck at a traditional job. And no matter how many people misunderstood his humor and wrote him off, Kent continued to pursue his dream. He’s now making it happen. And it’s not just him; I’m hearing about a bunch of people I knew in college making a name for themselves out there. This article in the New York Times not only is written by someone I knew in college but it also features Jordan and my roommate Evan. Wildness. Maybe one day soon we will all be able to read about my friends’ successes in a real newspaper like The Kent.
music: Recordings from the Biosphere (with Matt and Sebastian)- 2/18/05
Another week of vacation from school is upon me and my goals this time around are modest: resurrect some of that which I lost to Missa Toss over the past six months. I knew going into this nine day stretch that some sort of ritual was appropriate to mark the reclaiming of my own life that was to take place, and in the days before the vacation proper I considered doing a three-day fast to help clear the cobwebs and to create some mental space from which a more healthy, balanced perspective could take place. The topics of hunger and the inescapable need for food have been rattling around in my head for the past couple weeks, and the idea of a fast appealed to me as a way to manage both my accumulating emotional and visceral clutter. As the vacation hit, though, I realized that I did not need to empty out; instead, I needed to fill up. Enough of my time has been spent in personal deprivation that a physical acting out of that deprivation was not the proper means of making the most of this time given to me. No, instead, I thought to see what I could to to fill time with things of substance. My eating habits are poor enough during the work week.
If I had the inclination, I could easily fill my time from now until the end of break with work for school. I’ll have to dip into it at some point-lessons must be planned for the week after this and an entire curriculum in psychology must be outlined for next year-but for the time being I’m content to do things for myself. And even though break has only been dented by this past weekend, it is of significant substance. Time is being filled with goodness, mostly with that infinitely difficult but unspeakably positive thing I’ve been working towards and pushing on since I returned from my trip across the country: music.
Friday night, by all personal measures, was a watershed moment. I connected with two guys from Craigslist, a bassist and a drummer, and got down to it for about two and a half hours in the 1-2 basement music studio. We threw around some original ideas (I’m re-listening to the 30-minute straight improv we opened things with now), a couple Dead covers, a couple Phish covers, and some other assorted works. It was the first time I got to put the room downstairs to good use, and it was also the first time I got to put the newly-tuned and tweaked Gibson through the motions. Both earned their keep and then some-things came out better than I ever could have hoped for. Considering that it was our first time playing together it was downright incredible now that I’m listening to it again. Peet, a man who knows his music and takes it seriously, said that he’s paid good money to hear music much worse. It occurred to me afterwards that this was possibly the first electric jam session I’ve had on guitar…ever? It legitimized a lot for me: all that time spent noodling in my bedroom playing along to CDs, all that work put into recording demo tracks, all that money thrown into the new Gibson. It also made me glad I dropped some bills on mixers and microphones-we got a great sounding recording out of the session. We three are going to make a habit out of it and hope to eventually bring a keyboardist into the mix. Friday night saw a big goal of mine for this year come to fruition. I couldn’t be happier about it and am already itching to have another go at it.
I’m still staying true to my roots on the music front. I’m working on some more structured singer-songwriter type stuff on acoustic with Jono, a guy who contacted me about playing music a couple weeks back. We met up this afternoon, ran a few of his tunes including some covers, some of my originals and some of his. We’re shooting for an open-mic at the Middle East tomorrow night. It isn’t perfect yet, but it sounds good enough to take out there and let hang in the breeze for a little bit. Another goal of mine to be realized: playing out. My musical horizons are expanding by leaps and bounds given this short time in February and the best part is that these recent aural explosions are by no means limited or isolated incidents; they are beginnings.
Music, no matter how good it can be, is not the sum total of anyone’s existence. This week saw, by my standards, a staggering amount of social movement. C. and I had our weekly Thursday night dinner for the first time in a couple weeks and it was good to catch up with her. We came up with a great hairbrained scheme: I supply the music, and she’s going to make us Hammer Pants. (That’s word, because you know…) I also got a chance to see M. twice this week, a monumental feat considering I haven’t seen her since last September. Jono invited me out for the time honored tradition of drinking beer and then throwing really sharp pointy things last night. And tonight we had a dinner gathering at the 1-2 that blossomed from an offhand comment to Peet this morning into a way cool get-together. TiMO and JZ came back to the 1-2 from dogsitting, Jono stuck around after running through songs and convinced Sam to join us, Matt and Gina came up from downstairs, and Jojo made the trek up from Central Square. We had a good hour or two in the kitchen full of frying, boiling, slicing, talking, eating, drinking…even a good grease fire in the oven. We then did a good amount of lounging and laughing in the common room while we waited for our digestive systems to do their thing. It was a simply beautiful (and beautifully simple) Sunday night at the 1-2. It was a study in what is necessary this break: food. I do not need to be emptied, assuming a passive stance towards my surroundings. Instead, I need to be forceful and purposeful in my actions, to indulge in and enjoy food of all kinds, and as the song goes, share it with many friends. There are seven days left in which I have a lot to accomplish here in Boston. This vacation isn’t about leaving, and that’s important. It’s tough work resurrecting one’s social life after over a year of neglect, but I’m already beginning to taste the rewards.
music: Martin Sexton- 9/14/01, Woodstock, NY
New Year’s, if nothing else, is an opportunity to pause and take stock of one’s life and how the events of the past calendar year have affected life. It’s a seemingly straightforward task, but is a tall order for he who is overly reflective. Iit’s sometimes nice not to be afforded the time to do all that year-in-review work. Equally as important is an excuse to seek out those who are important to one’s life. This year, meeting up with some of my oldest friends in Philadelphia accomplished both these points.
If all options were equally accessible, I’d be deep in the backcountry, well off pavement, pitching camp and cooking a simple meal over a fire with a handful of friends. Instead I found msyelf in the middle of a very large city bouncing from bar to club to bar along with thousands of other young professionals. I became lost in the sea of humanity, just one of thousands of guys with untucked collar shirts and jeans. Definitely not my thing but because of my company I managed to have a good time of it. I was lucky to be with some of my oldest friends (oldest as in we’ve known each other the longest). It’s an amazing thing to spend time with my friends from growing up. Because we are so entwined in each others’ personal development we have no troubles falling into a familiar comfort with one another. I feel no stress or obligation to be someone or do something with them; just sharing time and space is enough. I habitually and purposefully keep my attention on the path ahead of me day-to-day, but on occasions that allow me to turn an ear back I realize how important these people are to not only my growing up but to my current life. An illustration: I knew I didn’t really own clothes appropriate to the night’s activities (Carhartts and yard-sale plaid shirts probably wouldn’t cut it for a night on the town for NYE) and brought some of my work clothes as fallback, but secretly counted on scavenging from my friends. R. somehow foresaw this predicament of mine and brought an extra outfit thinking I’d need something to wear out. Neither one of us said anything about not having or bringing extra clothes, but it didn’t need to be said. It’s like that when you’ve known someone for over 20 years. Post-midnight calls from my old college roommates was the icing on the cake.
Philadelphia itself was an impressive place to me. I thought the street scene on Market Street after bar time was excellent: thousands of festive souls all enjoying the unseasonably warm weather, laughing, singing, carrying on, and talking with one another. Talking with one another! Complete strangers…never in Boston (short of the Red Sox winning the World Series). It was a great moment in time and I was glad to be a part of it. Never mind that this hubbub all took place in the Old City, just blocks away from a National Park. Philly’s neighborhoods are great as well-very distinct and colorful. We strolled through the Italian Market today and grabbed a Cheesesteak. It’s amazing how residential the city’s center is. Houses and apartments are very interspersed with historical landmarks, important government buildings (I spent the night less than a block away from the US Mint), and commerical centers. As downtowns go, Philadelphia is really a great setup.
I decided to return today despite the great change of scenery and great company. For one, the D.C. contingency of our party cleared out this afternoon. More to the point, the knowledge that I’d have to make the transition back to Mr. Taus weighed heavily on my conscience. The drive down and back, it turned out, was a worthwhile exercise in and of itself. Driving for distance has become something I’ve grown quite good at after our marathon driving this summer and as I was heading down to Philly I realized how much I missed the postmodern meditation of driving long hours on the Interstate System. The stretch I ran is perhaps the most developed in the country, with streetlight and strip mall being the rule, not the exception, but there were pockets enough on I-91 and I-84 to give me the illusion of driving through the more sparse landscapes not found on the Eastern Seaboard. Despite tackling some of the worst roads in the country I was also able to get some good thinking time in and clear my head of a lot of cobwebs. The freedom that the road affords is enough to put the routines and trappings of life in perspective, and despite falling into that distinctly American trap of sucking down over a tank of gas and shelling out over $20 in tolls I felt better about things just knowing I could do something like get up and go to Philadelphia if I wanted. And I did.
I made it back to Boston in just under 5 hours this evening. I had a good stretch of time on the road tonight to let thoughts simmer and glide in and out, time enough to reflect on the past year even after celebrating with some of my oldest friends. I hurtled through cities under darkness, shedding the previous year in the process and letting the dust settle enough to start the next, one singular life in a grey steel box gliding past countless others, content to find some sort of clarity in the jouney itself, hoping that upon returning home there will be strength, resolve, and room to begin the business of the next year.
music: The Beatles- Rubber Soul
I got a call from an old friend the other day with the most unlikely of messages: “I was just watching MTV and I saw you on it.”
are. you. serious.
I have very little desire to be on MTV and would never go out of my way to squeeze my face on the screen of the world’s most notorious dictator of pop culture. I couldn’t help but wonder, though, how the hell my face ended up on MTV. My friend did the detective work for me: he traced it back to my college roommates.
I lived down the hall from Rami Freshman year. We became friends, along with Rami’s roommate and another set of roommates on the other end of the hall. I introduced the group to Josh in the cave of the Ratty one day. Josh was this other guy I met on the Main Green-he started talking to me because we were both wearing Phish t-shirts on the first day of class. Josh already knew one of the crew from back home, and quickly slid into the mix. The six of us became great friends and lived together Sophomore and Junior year, and split three and three for Senior year. These guys were my inner circle in college. Haven’t seen much of them since, unfortunately. Rami and Josh, always active with music, formed a band after college was over, and apparently been quite successful at it.
Their band is apparently catching the eye of some folks high up in the industry. Something For Rockets was featured on MTV’s You Heard It First recently, which is where my friend saw it. Apparently they had a three minute spot on the tube. Apparently all this is happening to my old college roommates, and apparently they did one of those brief histories of the band complete with pictures from college, in which I am found. So there you go. Rami and Josh on MTV, and me next to them, probably just outside the highlighted part of the picture. Modest schoolteacher lands two-second spot on MTV thanks to his outrageous and talented college roommates. I saw it coming. I’m not all that surprised, but I still find it hysterical to see these high-profile artsy shots of the two of them plastered all over the internet. And the long hair…I used to get such crap from them about my long hair…
All the best to my old buddies. While the creation of music is a worthwhile life pursuit (and theirs is of substantial quality), the pursuit of everything else that goes along with it is better left to guys like Rami and Josh. I’m content to smile at a distance, observe their path into the entertainment industry, and go to open mics and basement jam sessions. It makes me happy that they have stayed independent and still own their own art, that they produce and manage themselves. That they are getting the sort of media attention that they’ve been seeking is awesome. That I was unintentionally dragged along for a quick cameo on MTV is hysterical. Completely hysterical.
music: Tom Waits- Alice
Back in Boston after a long Thanksgiving weekend in Milwaukee. This year has been a torrent of activity and emotion, an unrelenting barrage of people and experience. I came back more tired than I arrived, but that is ok. Thanksgiving was spent well this year, although I found that I spread myself very thin trying to make time for as many people as I could. I would have, ideally, liked to spend a good hour or so with everyone I saw this weekend 1-on-1, but given the time constraints I was impressed with how much I got in. I know some really great people.
Spending time with family continues to be a more positive experience as my sisters get older. I have allies and companions at family events now; dinners that used to be tedious and unbearable are now much more lively and engaging. And even though I have very limited time with my cousins, it is always great to see them. I spent a good afternoon plus with the J’s, and Aunts L. and E. this weekend. This year was bittersweet, as it was the first time we assembled for Thanksgiving without Grandma. We took a good amount of time going through Grandma’s stuff at her apartment which was a tough thing to do for us, but important. All things considered, Grandma did not own a lot of stuff so the job was not an overwhelming one, but an act that required a lot of emotional push. How does one properly move a family heirloom into a box? How does one rightfully lay claim to these objects, these constants, that were not ours but will always be a reminder of a loved one? We that remain assumed possession of few of her things that had meaning for us: pots and pans, some of her pictures on the wall, assorted trinkets, necklaces and jewlery for the girls. I personally didn’t take much: a red plastic cup (the ones we always drank from-each of the grandkids got one) and a framed Breughel print that I’m told was my dad’s favorite. It hangs in my room now. Her apartment of over 30 years is being cleaned out, the remnants of her life are now boxed up or given away, and we have our memories and a few odd trinkets. Grandma is no longer here, but I think I’ve grown into a new appreciation for my cousins and aunts in the process of missing her.
While there was a requisite camp gathering on Saturday night, it was not the unabashedly wild and positive experience that it has been in the past. I suppose that I’m no longer part of that immediate world having been out for five years now and that I’m more concerned with the people I met through camp than a social circle centered on that place. I got a chance to visit with Doctor Dray and P-rock, always nice to check in with them, as well as friends from my own LT year: Gehl and Nick. Gehl I’ve seen a little more frequently but I haven’t seen Nick in some years. He is now married (!) and with 10-month old son (!!!) but still made it out for a beer. We didn’t have overwhelming amounts to talk about — I suppose given the time and drift that is to be expected — but it was still great to just be around them. Nick continues to be one of the most down-to-earth and nicest human beings I know. Enough time has passed such that these camp friends of mine have beome just…friends. They are all wonderful people.
The Minikani rendezvous was superceded in many ways by the serendipity common to nights out in Milwaukee: a core group of my high school friends were out at the same place. Because so many of the camp people at the gathering were strangers to me (too young for me to have interactions with them at camp), I ducked out of that scene to spend time with my friends from high school. It was excellent. We gathered the previous night as well and spent some good time together (as well as some scattered encounters with past classmates we would never think to talk to given the choice). I felt, at times, like I was 16 again, except with beer. The group of guys I became friends with in high school are an astounding bunch: intelligent, witty (sometimes too witty for our own good), amicable, outrageous when we gather. We have matured since we graduated, yes, and we all find ourselves in different places, but I was consistently astounded to find that we could all gather and reconnect without a hitch, we could really pick up right where we left off last. It is a low-maintnence, high-octane group. We had a great amount of fun, and I had some pretty sappy nostalgic moments. At one point four of us found ourselves together for the first time since Thanksgiving weekend of senior year, when we made a tradition of driving up to Terry Andrae State Park the Wednesday before the holiday and camping out in the freezing cold for the night. Two of the most memorable nights of high school for me, and the fact that we found ourselves together seven or eight years later on the same weekend was astounding to me. Not everyone was in town, but we had a critical mass. It was wonderful.
As I sit and turn over the weekend in my head, I’m reminded of a line from a song by Reid Genauer that I’ve never heard, but a line AJM has repeated so much I feel intimate with it: “We live in and of each other; We will remain.” It is someting of which I am much more aware after spending four or so days with people from my past, from my childhood and adolescence. We share things with all our friends, but there is a familiarity with our family and friends from growing up that is unmatched. I haven’t felt so comfortable as I had this weekend since I last joined company with these people. In my never-ending quest to push forward into the new and explore, I should be mindful of this. Me and my family, me and my friends from growing up: we live in and of each other. It’s a beautiful thing.
I find myself right now back in Boston, refusing to get real until tomorrow morning when my present catches back up with me. There is a storm of reality on the horizon; Mr. Taus will have to re-emerge tomorrow to confront that storm, but his message is somewhat affected by this past weekend. He will tell his high school students to cherish and celebrate the friends they are making, as while there are friends to be made and people to meet in the future, something about those you know while growing up is essential to the fabric of a person. To all I had the pleasure of seeing this weekend: thank you. We live in and of each other. We will remain.
music: Coltrane- Prestige Recordings d.3
We had a small get-together here at the 1-2 this past weekend. It was a random occasion, which I guess was the goal, but I got the chance to see some friends of mine from disparate places and times in my life all in the same place. Because of sending out party invites I’ve gotten back in touch with some people I really like but haven’t talked with for a bit. It also got me to thinking this week about people I haven’t talked with in a long while but would like to (Killian, a friend from camp who is now in a Marine and can’t tell us where he is half the time; Anna, a friend from college who I think is now out do-gooding on the campaign trail for Kerry; CJ, my boy from high shool down in Philly studying to be a dentist). Funny, then, that I should get an email from Louis out of the blue.
Louis and I spent some good time commiserating and smoking cigarettes in college during our respective unstable periods. He’s a guy I have seen less and less of since college, someone I basically lived with for two years of college and as such wouldn’t really make plans with ever, but was always around and up late at night. And usually looking for a distraction from work. He still makes my A-list, even after all this time of not really talking. When you live with someone, I’ve realized, you don’t really do stuff, as in make plans, you just share the everyday experience of living such that when you do make plans things seem wierd. Regardless, Louis had re-entered my consciousness as of late, part of a slew of friends from my past who I’d like to talk with at some point. Imagine my surprise when I get an email from Louis today, sent from Rwanda of all places. I guess he’s picked up and headed out to Rwanda with BJ, another friend of ours from college. I’m shocked, but I’m not surprised. It’s like that with Louis. He’s a wanderer.
Louis says he’ll be keeping an online account of his time in Africa here. I’m trying to recruit the guy as the latest addition to anize, as he’ll have one hell of a story to tell and he’s very handy with the pen. I’m looking forward to reading up on his travels. Let’s hope he has some decent internet access every now and then, and the initiative and follow-through to actually write. He’s an extraordinary guy, and only when he moves to the other side of the world am I reminded that I’d like to keep him within reach. I’d like to keep a lot of people within reach. I have a past chock full of good people with whom I’d love to keep up, but as with Louis, living presently tends to get in the way of that. My tendency has been to frame the comings and goings of people as natural ebb and flow of human relationship. As much as I’d like to fight that current every now and then, it seems that location and time dictate my stream more than intention. But to the matter at hand: Louis in Africa. At least I can now say that I read it on his blog…
music: Martin Sexton- Live Wide Open
No matter how amicable the circumstances, no matter how good the decision, breaking up is a hard thing to do.
music: Grateful Dead- 11/11/73, San Francisco, CA
It’s quite late, and a school night. I know. But seniors are trying to graduate, and despite a list of things I need to do and people I need to call that is growing and growing, I need to take a quick minute before bed to pay respects.
Word came down the pipe this week: Firefighter Killed While Riding Bike in Bay View Neighborhood. Turns out this one was someone I was friendly with growing up. We were on the same baseball team when we were 13 and 14. He had a shock of red hair (in those days it was a pretty pimpin’ mullet) and was faster than anyone else on the bases. His fielding was poor enough to put him in the outfield, but he always batted second or third in the lineup. I went to high school with him as well. We were friendly, never really hung out, but friendly. We dressed up in crazy outfits on selected Fridays senior year of high school. We talked shit on the bench and spit sunflower seeds through the fence. He was this kid I knew growing up, and this week he fell under the tires of a cement mixer while he was riding his bike to work.
I’ve been thinking about John for the past couple of days. I can’t claim to know him all that well, but he still casts a shadow into my mind. Our paths crossed at some point, and now that he’s no longer among the living I can’t help but step back for a minute and reflect on just how fragile any of our paths are. John was diesel — a goddamn firefighter is right — but just like that he was benched. Permanently. And that he was riding his bike was a little unsettling: I know that moment where you are riding close to a bigger vehicle and something slips momentarily…it’s happened to me enough times to taste the unthinkable for half a second…it’s enough to shake me into taking the bus this week. John was in fucking shape. He could have whipped through a triathalon no problem, but just like that…it makes me think of my student who got the daylights beat out of her two weeks ago, or my old friend K. who is now an officer in the Marines and most likely in Iraq. Humans are fragile creatures. Even the tough ones.
The loss that I feel with regard to John is quite minimal compared to those who were closer to him. Some other friends of mine from high school, his family, the firefighters that worked alongside him. I still couldn’t help but choke something back. What is even more sad is that John is the second of my old teammates to die. Another friend passed on a couple years back. Just like that. Something just stopped working. You never know, I guess. It makes me feel a little guilty about trying to get through these next couple of days for the sake of some time in the future.
This week, a picture of John got taped onto my bike frame. In some little way, he will ride with me as I pedal through traffic, dodging this and that, navigating as best I can towards some yet-to-be-determined destination.
music: Pink Floyd- Meddle
This is how the past day or so has broken down:
Friday was a full day at school. I was in at 8:00am. The morning was teaching, the afternoon was meetings about things coming up next week (our on-the-fly curriculum), next month (museum of science field trip that I’m organizing), in two months (water project). It’s all hard to juggle. I’m managing. Then our weekly faculty meeting. Then grading. I got out around 6:30pm. That was the fourth ten-hour day this week. Fine. A quick nap and then onto more work. The Water Project curriculum I was working on was apparently shit. So I have to overhaul it.
M. calls with an invitation to go hear some music. I talk to her a bit on the way home. I must be a loser and decline for two nights in a row. I haven’t seen her since December, since she went to Central America and back and I’ve been there and back again. We’re long overdue for a check-in, but that will have to wait too.
Tmo calls. I forget what I said to him. Something about a promise I made to work on some audio editing for the Murphy’s stuff. Whoops.
A nap first. The nap begins around 8:30pm, and like a champion I sleep until 3:30am. I lied in bed for a while thinking dark thoughts, getting really angry and feeling very lonely. Then up for some work, some tea, some scotch, then back to bed. Then up at 8:00am on Saturday. More work. Then some errands. Some food. Then back in front of the computer.
M. from NY calls somewhere in there. I couldn’t sustain a thought to make conversation meaningful. I’m having visions of reservoirs, sewers, and effluent all the while. Shit.
So with brief interruptions on the phone and 45 minutes for dinner, I’ve been blasting away at this water unit. It’s not done. It’s pushing 2:00am Saturday night now. And I still have to crank out a 15-pager about the unit plan once it is done. I’ve missed catching a show with M., catching up with tmo, a birthday party in Central Square, and I haven’t really talked to anyone today. Work is not near finished. What sort of a life is this?
music: Mad Dog Trio- Ex Nihilo
One conclusion resulting from a bit of quasi-impulsive reality testing this past weekend, submitted for approval:
One of the most elegant equations in Newtonian physics is also one of the simplest and most widely known: rate is a function of distance and time. This equation describes the motion of objects through space; it gives us a way to describe speed. I have come to realize as of late that this equation applies equally to human relationships, except that the rate of relationship, I think, also refers to its quality (which is a generally constant value decided upon by factors far too complex to model quantitatively), and distance and time fluctuate in inverse proportion accordingly. Which is unfortunate.
This, of cousre, fails to take into account the more modern Einsteinean model which states that rate, or quality, is responsible for the dilation of both distance and time. Which makes things a little more interesting.
I’m happy to say that before any other conclusions are reached, more data will need to be collected. Applied mechanics is nothing if not thorough, and this researcher is nothing if not patient.
music: master recordings from Wabeno, WI- 12/29/03 — 1/1/04
2004 has arrived and my time in the midwest is rapidly coming to a close. It’s been time enough here. There are things that need my attention (and lots of it) out East, and although I’m staring down a series of very demanding weeks, I’m anxious to be getting back to my current and chosen reality. Milwaukee was a nice respite from my obligations in Boston, but it is definitely time to dig back in. So I grit my teeth, and set myself, and prepare for the onslaught of full time teaching, final exams, and everything else my life out East demands of me.
The trip home was productive on several fronts. I spent some time with family members and friends who I haven’t seen in a long time. I made some headway on school work, although not nearly as much as I would have liked. But perhaps most importantly, I made some music.
I found myself in a cabin in Wabeno, WI with some friends from camp to ring in the new year. AJM, The Doctor, and I used a good deal of time in the back room of that cabin to record some music. The conditions were less than optimal: three guys, three acoustic guitars, and a less-than-professional microphone, but it came together better than I thought it would. When all was said and done, we committed about two and a half hours’ worth of our music to hard drive space. Included in that archive were several original works, which represented an important step for me in my own creative process.
I’ve fiddled around with snippets of musical ideas for some time, but haven’t really had the wherewithall to produce a song. I think that the collaboration with friends Up North this weekend really spurred the songwriter in me. As I sit here, a night after returning, I am still energized with possibility and creativity. I think a lot of it had to do with the reinforcement my friends provided. So much of the music I make falls on my bedroom walls, and there is nobody there to add their own voice, but this week two of my friends were there to contribue their voices and visions to the product.
I learned “Gato Negro” this weekend, a tune that AJM wrote with The Doctor last year, and I am really impressed with it. So much so that its existence somehow proves to me that this songwriting endeavour is possible, that producing quality original work is absolutely within my reach. It is something that I need in order to carry forth; it is something I am listening to right now.
The music itself is rough and isn’t mixed too well (to be fair, it is pretty good considering what we had to work with), but it represents something greater. After making music with my friends this week and having it to listen to now, the production of my own song(s) seems that much more within reach. I’ve stuggled with the producer/consumer dichotomy for the past couple of year, wishing to fall more on the producer side of things, and after the recording sessions this past week I finally feel like I’m taking a step in the right direction. The real challenge will be keeping up the momentum in Boston, where I will be far away from my New Year’s collaborators and more likely than not working in isolation. Yet another challenge to add to the long list for when I return. But this is important; making music is one of the best uses of my time and energy that I can imagine. A certain threshold has been crossed, and I aim to use this inertia to push my practice in the months to come. As AJM might say: “Forward.”
music: Nickel Creek- Nickel Creek
Real friendship is a remarkable thing. This weekend was a celebration of friendship of the highest order. Reuben and Mara were married this weekend; they have been best friends since ninth grade. Theirs is a friendship that has held strong across distance and time, has transcended the various phases of life through which each has passed, and has culminated in them becoming family. Gathered this weekend were their family, as well as friends from present and past (we friends being a family of sorts in our own right), to celebrate this remarkable friendship that has become a marriage.
A union between two people from the same place in the world and with so much common history is a special thing for the community to which they belong. The world seems a little more welcome and full, a little more familiar and comfortable. The fact that the wedding was held in Milwaukee was an important piece of the picture, and I was glad to come back here and reconnect with that part of me which grew here alongside Reuben, Mara, and the others with whom I shared my childhood. It would not really be held anywhere else, of cousre, but the city in which we grew up together provided that context appropriate to us gathering and celebrating something that started right here so many years back. There is a sense of deep history in this place for a lot of us who were gathered this weekend. Milwaukee itself lended meaning to the celebration through the ties that we all have to this place. It is easy to forget where one comes from if one no longer lives there and is not surrounded with people from there. It is easy to lose track of my own history and to have a chance to come back to Milwaukee this weekend and reunite with so many friends and celebrate the next chapter in this community was a necessary.
One of the perks of having one of your oldest friends get married to his high school sweetheart is that our group of friends would reunite in order to celebrate the occasion. As time has gone on and we have spread out around the country, we have had less and less opportunity to see each other. Sometimes we would meet up in smaller numbers, more frequently we would continue the back-and-forth that started in high school electronically. Rare is the occasion that we all find ourselves in the same place at the same time, and thanks to an occasion such as the one this weekend, we all had an opportunity to spend some good time with each other and celebrate our own friendships which are still very much alive, even after significant time spent apart. I feel especially blessed to know these people and be a part of such a wonderful group of friends, which has expanded over the years to include people I have only met through my friends from grade school and high school. There were Reuben’s friends from camp (Mara being one of them, now that I think about it) that did not go to high school with me, but still have become my friends. There are friends that Reuben made in college that have become my friends. And, of course, there are the friends I made in grade school and high school that I don’t have the opportunity to see all that often. That we all could come together this weekend to celebrate one of our friends’ most potent and wonderful rites of passage was a special thing, something I cherish.
There is something to be said for my relationship with these people here that is fundamentally different from the relationships with people I’ve met and value as friends since moving from Milwaukee. While my friends here are just as valued as my friends elsewhere, I feel a certain affinity for people with whom I grew up, whose families I know, with whom I have shared a much more deep sampling of my life. I spent some quality time talking with some people this weekend that I haven’t seen since high school, and haven’t talked to in even longer, but nevertheless found a certian level of comfort and familiarity that can only come from growing up together. Coupled with that was the task of bridging the past several years, realizing where we have been respectively since then, and relating on how we’ve grown and changed. And that there is still much of that same person that I knew and who knew me when we were kids. In this sense, the wedding was a re-union with many aspects of many of our shared past that have morphed and developed into something that is completely viable here and now, in the present.
This last point might be the centerpiece of Reuben and Mara’s marriage. As we grew up with them, they grew up with each other, and as such have a deep and strong history. I know that the roots they they share will serve as the foundation for a strong and lasting union and the basis from which they will spend the rest of their lives together, perpetuating this community of friendship and love well into the future.
This weekend of connection and re-union with so many good people from long-neglected corners of my life is a shift from my recent life’s practices and activities. I have been living somewhat of a monastic life in Boston as of late, occupied with the intellectual and the institutional. It is supremely ironic that I will be researching and writing a paper on solitude for that world for the rest of the week.
music: Abdullah Ibrahim- Good News from Africa d.1
The semester has ended; I find myself tonight in Milwaukee. It’s as if I were still in college. Almost, but three years later I can’t help but know better. I left Boston not having tied up everything that I had wanted, but, realistically, I never expected to do it all. Thus, things are left dangling, awaiting my imminent return in January. It frustrates me to be away from that world for so long. Boston is my home now, and a place that I want to give my energy and attention, especially because things are left unfinished. For now, though, I have a world on which to focus here. Focus has become easier since I decided to stop popping pills and fight my headaches on other fronts. It’s amazing how my mood has improved as compared to earlier in the week as a result. This weekend is a respite. This weekend, my world is filled with goodness.
This is a dynamic time of year. This week alone I’ve experienced as wide a range of emotions as I have during any given week, as have others. Bell’s hardships, (soon to have a blog of their own), AJM’s life-changing decisions, and my own trials have proven the point. This is a dynamic time of year: this week daylight itself turns the corner and begins to expand again.
This weekend one of my oldest friends is to be married. A good portion of the high school gang has gathered and we are all in for a weekend of celebration and of recollection. I am due to encounter people I haven’t seen in far too long, as well as people long forgotten. The primary task at hand is to mark the occassion of two people deciding to spend the rest of their lives together (a notion deserving of its own entry…in due time), but as a perk benefit, the crew is reuniting. Milwaukee always reeks of the past, but it hasn’t been this potent in quite some time. Tonight I saw C.J. for the first time in almost a year, and a certain comfort and familiarity fell right into place. So will it be for the rest of the weekend. It’s a strange phenomenon. I suppose the only question is why these people aren’t as much a part of my present, why I am not talking to these people more regularly. I think, though, that I know the answer, and that in truth, everything is pretty much as it should be.
At some level, it doesn’t matter that I haven’t put in quality time with my high school friends for some time (some since high school). There is something powerful that we share. When you grow up with people you know them on a substantially deep level. It is a familiarity that still eludes friends I have made since-in college and as an adult. There are things you can only know about someone from being in the house in which they grew up, meeting their family, seeing them through the teenage years. As such, the friends I made in high school will always have a certain intuitive familiarity to me that I have yet to find elsewhere in my experience.
It’s been quite a long day, and although I have much more to say on this business, I think I will save it until the wedding festivities have begun in earnest. And, of course, I’m not yet thinking about all the work waiting for me on the other side of the wedding. And I’m trying hard not to think about my world in Boston. For the time being, home is a strangely familiar place, full of old friends gathered to celebrate life, and that makes me happy.
music: John Coltrane- My Favorite Things
It’s Sunday night, and I’m back in Boston now after the long Thanksgiving weekend in Milwaukee. This year was very laid back, which was just what I needed. Part of the Thanksgiving rush each year is getting to spend time with friends, who now descend from all over the country on our collective home city. I did a fair amount of that this year, but not nearly as much as I have in years past. I used to make a point to make an appearance at the Silver Spring House and the Hi Hat, two local establishments that serve as default meeting points every Thanksgiving weekend, a universal law that is understood by a good chunk of my high school class. I’ve had less and less interest in showing up for these gatherings as the years have worn on, and this year I just didn’t go at all. I don’t miss it a bit.
I did get a chance to see friends that I wanted to see, which is a good and important thing to do. It’s always a tricky juggling act when I’m in Milwaukee, as my circles of friends are cleanly divided into two subsets: high school friends and camp friends. The experience of interacting with each group has always followed different sets of norms, but as time progresses the differences become more pronounced.
To be fair, the high school friends were not all in town this year. We had a healthy handful of folks, but things were a little disjoint and haphazard. I pushed to see the people I wanted to see, and accomplished that goal, but along with that saw people from high school that I really didn’t set out to see at all (even without hitting up the Silver Spring House or the Hi Hat). Which is fine, I guess, but for what little updating and small talk I had for some of the people I counted as friends in high school, I had that much less for those who I didn’t. Not that they are bad people, not that I don’t like them. Neither is really true. But to spend time with these friends-of-friends doesn’t interest me, no-interests me even less than it used to, which wasn’t very much. But I understand it as part of the social web that has been woven in Milwaukee, and if anything, seeing these friends-of-friends acquaintances whom I have not given a single second of thought to since the last year is a good reminder of the myraid intersections that our lives’ paths make with one another. And I didn’t feel too bad about not seeing everyone or spending quality time with everyone, as we all have a wedding to attend in Milwaukee in three weeks.
Camp friends, on the other hand, are familiar and comfortable. We all are able to fall right back into our social world, make fun out of pretty much any situation. It’s inaccurate, I suppose, to call these people ‘camp friends,’ as none of us are working at camp anymore. But still, we all were raised by a common third parent, and as such, operate much like a family. We spent a rowdy and loud night at the Landmark (where else can you bowl, play video games, darts, pool, and drink local microbrew for $2.50 a pint?) and as always, meshed wonderfully. Even those distant camp cousins who I haven’t seen in years, even those lost camp nieces and nephews who I have never really talked to. A collection of these camp folk will be spending this New Year’s with nothing but each other in a two-room cabin in the Nicolet National Forest. It’s always a highlight, and it is because of the character of our interaction. I even saw some old campers (besdies the ones who made it on staff), which is always reaffirming and good for the soul. Pound for pound, point for point, and on the whole, the sons and daughters of Minikani have a distinct knack and edge in our ability to congregate and celebrate.
To be fair, I think that part of this has to do with the fact that many of my high school friends are also friends from their camp, and therefore have two sets of friends that virtually overlap, myself being the outlier. I know this has a lot to do with how they interact, as evidenced by the quality of their time that they spend with each other. They are lucky in that their friendships are concentrated and potent, I am lucky in that I know (arguably) twice as many good people.
I relate to my friends, of course, as individuals, and the individual interactions I had this weekend were dynamic and varied. Some were reaffirming that no matter where two people are in their lives, they can jump right back into something meaningful and substantial. Despite having a momentus life change directly in front of him, good ol’ #8 and I shared some good conversation talking shop, about our friends, ourselves, our city, and how time has had its effect on all of it. I popped by to have a brief visit with K., an important friend in my life, and was struck with how two people who, in high school, spent a good amount of time in close connection could be wandering down such distinct paths in their early 20’s. I had some good, albeit brief, conversations with Ript Kod, Thomas Lindhurst, P-Rock, Maggie-O, and even the Local Resource despite being placed in a context of Saturday night bar revelry. I did get to check in with Joslar X. McFilbert and Larghetto but didn’t come away with a mess of interpersonal insight. Sobering. And as a pleasant surprise, I got to spend the plane trip back to Boston sitting next to Agent Krysiak, which was a nice way to nurse a migraine.
This weekend I have come to realize a possible third subset of friends: my sisters. As they are getting older, I am able to relate to them better and I actually had fun seeing them this year. There is, of course, a long way to go, and gaps that will not be bridgeable, but there a good chunk of progress being made in that sphere. Ari will be out in Boston this Tuesday; we will be taking in a Phish show together. Which is exemplary.
Despite all the psychic energy I spent on my past this weekend, at certain points this weekend, I caught myself thinking about aspects of my life here in Boston, wishing I could run my thoughts by a friend here or measuring some aspect of my Milwaukee experience relative to Boston. That is as it should be, I think; yet as I sit here typing, I know that I am staring down a mountain of schoolwork and certain trials of time, energy, and attention here. I’m invested in my present environment, reaching up and out. This weekend I temporarily recoiled to my origins and spent a good deal of time examining my roots, polishing and shining old corners while letting others gather dust. And in the end, I left it all there, knowing I would be back in three weeks for a larger helping. Time is doing strange things to my relationship with Milwaukee and the people I associate with my first home city, but all things considered, that is exactly as it should be.
music: none
Volker got in his big purple truck this afternoon and drove south towards Floyd, VA. He’s not going to be back in Boston for some time. He’s gearing up to embark on a solo journey through South America, a journey that has no definite end in sight.
Will I see him ever again? Most likely. But today, tonight, right now, it has a feeling of finality. We parted ways last night without much ceremony, but in true form: after taking in some music. Volker seemed detached and elsewhere the entire evening though, busy taking pictures and fiddling with his camera and tripod. In many ways it was just another night with music and the 1ey, a night like the ones we have had for the better part of two years in this city. At the end of the night, between well-wishers and bar patrons, I got an honest-to-god hug out of the guy, and before I could think of something fitting to say as a parting shot, I found mysef walking back to the car by myself. A drawn-out, sappy goodbye would have been too cumbersome, although after I turned my back and started to walk away I found a few of my tears hitting the pavement. Life is painfully beautiful sometimes.
Right now now Volker and his big purple truck are headed out. He’s probably on the road as I write this. In terms of our little social circle, a significant chapter has definitely closed. He will be sorely missed around these parts. He already is.
I could try to summarize the phenomenon of DJ 1ey as I have known him here over the past two years, but it is an effort that would surely fall short of its goal (luckily, he has joined the Anize family so we can read about the latest firsthand). Those who don’t know Volker wouldn’t really understand; those who do know him don’t need my words.
This has been a bittersweet occasion. Of course I’m excited for his adventure to lands far, far away. It is quite an undertaking and will absolutely prove to be a life-changing experience. It’s not that I wish he were staying here; it is high time for him to go exploring, see the world. It’s not that I wish I were going along; that path is one for him to walk by himself. It’s more that his distinct presence will no longer be something immediate and local in my world. That makes me sad, but I know that it’s also very selfish. It makes me happy to think that the 1ey will be walking through some strange and beautiful corners of this planet in a short while, way out there capable of being nobody but himself and having people I’ll never meet learn a little bit about him and be glad for it. I feel blessed to have gotten to spend a good two years with him, and only upon his departure more completely realize what an extraordinary individual my friend is. We should celebrate and cherish the good people in our lives, and by my humble estimation, Volker is one of the best.
As you pack your bags,
head out for Parts Unknown
We hope that you’ll remember
all us folks back home;
When you’re feeling lonesome
and you’re stuck without a friend,
Know that
someone
somewhere
loves you
music: Phish- 11/8/96, Champaign, IL
Last night I went to a party for DJ 1ey, who is about to depart for South America for a good amount of time (This, of course, deserves its own entry which will be made some time soon). A most excellent group of friends were gathered there and shared in what was at its core a simple celebration of friendship. It was a great time. I count myself lucky to know so many quality individuals and am glad to be able to spend time with them.
Due to getting in around 5:00 in the morning and drinking too much last night, I had a hard time enjoying the bright morning today. I laid in bed for a while, struggling with consciousness, and after deciding that today would not be a day of work until the sun went down, began to let my mind wander. I tried to piece together a very fragmented dream in which some orwellian trial had sentenced me to an excommunication of sorts for a minor scuffle with some woman I didn’t know. I tried to make a mental list of all the things I had to do for Monday’s classes but quickly gave up on that. And I started to figure out how I have come to know so many good people here.
An answer of sorts came when Trangy called in the early afternoon interrupting, incidently, my train of thought. The first words out of his mouth, even before “hello,” were “happy anniversary.” November eighth….Eleven-eight. Of course. It was seven years ago today that Vounk’s mom’s minivan carried him, myself, Scroto, Krudson, Garbage, and Rosario down to Champaign, IL for our first Phish show. It would be the start of a force that would push my world in new directions, a force that has everything to do with where I am today.
I first heard Phish at camp when I was 13 or so, but didn’t really put some mental effort into the band until the fall of 1995 and spring of 1996. I can remember sitting with Trangy during a fall inservice weekend at camp talking about Phish- trading tapes, going to shows. It was the beginning of a dialogue that approached academic levels of analysis of the band and their music, a preoccupation that bordered on obsession for the next 3-4 years (Trangy, now, is a graduate student of music and culture, earning a Master’s degree in such a conversation). We since had seen the band a handful of times, most recently with sign in tow for a weekend this past January. We have spent ungodly amounts of money, time, and thought on the band over the years, but all of this is perhaps best epitomized in our journey to the Florida Everglades and back to celebrate the coming of the Millenium with P.D., Scroto, 85,000 others, and Phish. It just so happened that one of those 85,000 others was a friend of Trangy’s from college, someone named Tim.
My brief introduction to Tim at Big Cypress was, by all appearances, a non-event. But we crossed paths again that fall at Deer Creek and Polaris, and he came down with Trangy to stay with me when Phish played two nights at Great Woods. So when it came time for me to find a place to live for the summer in Boston, I contacted Tim and shortly thereafter took up residence in a corner of the attic in a big yellow house in JP. By this time, Phish was on hiatus, but the music had spun me in a solid and definite direction. Enter the other members of Chowdahaus: G-Phatty, Peet, Doug, as well as the likes of OGD and DJ 1ey; so begins a social core that would make me feel home in Boston and friendships that survive to the moment.
I think the first time I hung out with the 1ey it involved frisbees and the Arboretum. The music slowly changed, but old patterns remained. We both went to a lot of concerts, and as a rule, the 1ey’s taste in music was something to be respected. Mostly on his recommendation, we hit up the local hotspots, reggae clubs in Brockton, festivals around the Northeast, as well as a little pub in Brookline called Matt Murphy’s. To say that I’ve met a few good people over the course of about two years’ worth of Tuesday nights at Murphy’s would be a collosal understatement. The music, then was expanding and changing, but it was indeed music that was in many ways guiding me along a path.
Concurrently, I began to put some work into Live Live, thereby placing myself in the middle of a thriving and vibrant community whose very foundations were music. Live Live was a constant in-and-out of new and interesting people and their friends, and as such I have Live Live to thank for gaining access to such an incredible collection of people. I count as my friends some of those whom I had the good fortune to interview for the show, friends including the good people from Lothrop and their extended circle (which, by no small coincidence, overlaps almost perfectly with the Murphy’s circles).
Things have recently come full circle in a matter of speaking as a friend I had made in college is now integrating into the Boston network. I shouldn’t be so surprised that C. and I met one night at a RISD party playing hand drums, later spinning off setlists and concert dates. Would it be any surprise that the band’s music we connected through was Phish? It almost goes without saying.
And as a wholly relevant side-trip on this path, I feel it necessary to recall a moment on the first day of my freshman year of college where a boisterous, bearded (hegemonic, malodorous…) classmate approached me with the greeting “ahh, I see you’re in uniform.” I was wearing a Phish t-shirt, as was he. We became friends and would end up living together for the next three years of college. After I introduced him to some of the guys living on my hall over dinner at the Ratty a core group of friends was formed that would, in many ways, define my college experience. That music, and specifically the music of Phish, was once again the driving force behind a significant portion of my life is not the least bit surprising.
So as I was lying in bed this afternoon letting my mind wander, I began to wrap my head around the significance of the rock concert I drove to Champaign, Illinois to see on 11/8/96. In many ways, the friends I have now and the general place in which I find myself can be traced back to this single event. I listen to Phish less and less as time goes on, but I will never put them aside entirely. Because of the role that their music has played in my life, I could never put them aside, even if I wanted to.
Grandma D. gave me a long-sleeved t-shirt a long time ago that she probably got as a promotional throw-in for buying a boombox or something like that. On the back of the t-shirt the phrase “Where The Music Takes You” is printed. It’s by all accounts a fairly ugly shirt, and I used to wear it when working with messy things or playing ultimate. But the phrase clicked some time not long ago (I think, quite honestly, that I was at a Phish show…), and I began to realize exactly where and to what extent the music has taken me. It’s been seven years to the day since I’ve seen my first Phish show, and to make the connection between me as a teenager driving from Milwaukee to Champaign in November of 1996 and me as a twentysomething celebrating so many wonderful friendships at a party in Somerville, MA in November of 2003 seems, now, perfectly natural. I will continue to move where the music takes me, and where there is music, I will follow.
Dripping in this strange design
None is yours and far less mine
Hold the wheel, read the sign
Keep the tires off the line
Just relax, you’re doing fine
Swimming in this real thing
I call life
But can I bring
a few companions
on this ride?
What’s this? The 1ey has a blog? This is special. I’m gonna make a link to it. I’m gonna check it daily (made headlines twice already…go team). I’m gonna see pretty, pretty pictures of stuff we’ve done. I’m gonna see pretty, pretty pictures of South America soon enough. But it’s good to have him around still. The Anize.org gang grows evermore…
music: Ladysmith Black Mambazo- Best Of
Once again, it’s 2am. But this time, I just woke up from a “nap” that started at 6pm. much needed. This has been one incredible week in terms of waking and working. Not that it is exceptional in any way, except that my decision-making has favored having some quality converstations with people instead of reading books. The books, I finally accepted, will be there waiting for whenever I have time to read them. The people won’t. And yes, the books all got read for this week (sort of). More importantly, though, I finally began to take some time for people instead of squirreling myself away in the corners of the library and losing all ties to social reality for the sake of highbrow theorizing about this and that.
The dinner at El Charro this past Sunday set the tone for the week. Instead of rushing home to delve into books I probably didn’t have the attention span to get into properly, I ate mexican, danced the mariachi chicken dance with Johanna, and enjoyed the company of many fine people, including the 5 alums of Chowdahaus. Good phone conversations with mom and Rich this week while sitting outside the library. Even talked with college roommates long lost briefly this week, which was great. Met a really great bunch of people via Live Live this week, once again validating why I bother to keep that project going. I decided, as a result, to hit up murphy’s instead of going right home afterwards and spent some good time with said people. Got home around 3 am, but all well worth it. Even last night, when I gave myself time to study in the library, I ended up chatting for about an hour with N., a fellow TAC‘er who’s spent some good time living in and travelling in the Far East and talking with some pretty mind-boggling people. Alas, books didn’t get read but my education was indeed expanded.
I’m in a History of Science course this semester. It’s fulfilling a science requirement, but it’s really a history of environmental politics and philosophy. The professor is great; he has a lot of great things to say and is very adept at saying them. I really, really like going to class to listen. I’m not too bothered that he called me out on not doing all the readings for the week. He understands what sort of workload I’m operating under, he knows I’m there to get as much as I can, and as a historian, he’s a big fan of story. That’s
