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changing limits

According to anecdotal evidence (read: a quick Google search), the average college student changes his or her major three times before graduating. The fact that I never once changed mine -- did that make me an above average college student? -- or below?

I had a roommate who seemed to change his major three times a semester. I didn't get what was so hard about choosing a course of study and sticking to it. Looking back, perhaps he was a bit wiser than me. If you can't afford to change your mind a million times during college when else will you be able to?

Yet, I know I'm only limiting myself if I think my career has to be confined to what I studied in college.

(I can't believe it's been almost three years since I graduated.)

anxious arms

I woke up around 3:30 am this morning and haven't been able to resume my slumber (it's currently 5:02 am). This used to happen to me more often than it does now, about once a month, now it only occurs once every two to three months (for that I am grateful). I never know what it is that wakes me but it's anxiety that I won't be able to fall back asleep and get a full night's rest that keeps me awake. Which seems a bit poetic.

In my general anxious state, my worried mind conjures up other thoughts that seem to only increase the anxiety. For example, where am I going to be live when my apartment lease is up at the end of the month? (I'm trying to buy a house in the historic neighborhood just to the north of where I live now, and I'm doubtful that I will find one I love and close on it before March 31.)

Also contributing to my anxiety:

• What will I have for dinner tonight?
• I can't get "Codes and Keys" by Death Cab for Cutie out of my head. What's worse, I can't find a quality version of the song on YouTube or SoundCloud to embed in this post.
• What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life? (This is a big one.)
• How can I save money (or make more money) to travel more?

When I wake up in the early AM I can usually tell whether or not it will take me a couple hours to fall back asleep. About half an hour in, I start to wonder if there is something I should be doing to better spend my time than wishing to be asleep. My current options include:

• Cleaning my apartment. And taking care of that huge pile of dishes in my sink.
• Reading. I just started John Steinbeck's hefty biography. At 1168 pages it's not something I will finish anytime soon (I'll most likely read it in sections).
• Watching Pushing Daisies. I only saw a few episodes of this show before it was cancelled and since then, I've only seen a couple more. So I was happy to discover that Prime members can watch it for free on Amazon. I know this doesn't count as a better use of my time but I'm going to get around to watching it all sooner or later so why not knock out a couple episodes since I've got nothing else going on.
• Journal writing. I say that like I do this every now and then -- I don't -- but I'd like to make a habit of it so I should probably start.

Well, it's 5:36 am now, which means I've been awake long enough to be able to fall back asleep. And it will probably take me a good 15 minutes to proofread this, so I'll wrap this up now.

Good night/morning.

revolution

I haven't posted anything in over a month and I don't really have a reason for being absent. But I felt the need to point it out. In case you didn't miss me. Anyway, moving on.

Recently I've made a few changes to my music consumption habits. When I bought a new car last May, for whatever reason I started listening to fewer CDs while I drive, preferring to listen to my iPod on shuffle. And now, when I listen to entire albums as I drive, I often use my iPod instead of digging out a compact disc. As a result, I purchase far fewer CDs. (I'm not sure how having a new car forced this change upon me as my last automobile was just as capable of connecting my iPod through an auxiliary input.)

(I've also been buying less vinyl, but that has more to do with my wanting to save money and is neither here nor there.)

Buying fewer CDs has led me to download more, almost always from Amazon MP3 (the exception is when I buy a record that comes with a download card). While I enjoy the convenience of downloading, it's nowhere near as fun as buying an actual CD or record (nothing beats buying a record. Except for live music (be it playing or spectating)). Since I find less joy in downloading I don't listen to as much new music as I used to. So I started using Spotify (the free version, which has the most annoying ads of all time) as an attempt to remedy that.

At work I switch off between Spotify -- to check out albums and tracks that I would consider purchasing -- and Amazon Cloud Player -- for stuff that I've already bought. I'm seriously considering trying out Spotify Premium: all-you-can-eat music on any device (well, not my iPod) for $10 a month sounds like an OK deal. Sure, that monthly fee adds up but it wouldn't be hard to save that $10 somewhere else -- not eating out two times in one month would account for that and then some.

However, I'm adverse to the idea of using Spotify on my phone. Why? It will kill the battery in no time. "Just get a car charger for your phone," you say? Yeah, that's an option. I should probably have one anyway. What really scares me, if I make the leap to Spotify it's highly unlikely I'll download much of anything. (Unless it's like my favorite band or something, or if, again, I purchase an album on vinyl and it comes with a download card.)

I know what your next question will be, "Why do you have to download your music?" I just really like owning my music (the reasons for said idiosyncrasy are topic enough for another post). Furthermore, I like detaching from my phone sometimes and using my iPod, where I can't access Twitter, Facebook, email, texts, the internet, you get the idea. (It's sad that going from one electronic device to one that is less sophisticated is my idea of "detaching.")

So you see, making the leap to Spotify encompasses so much more than forking over a paltry $10 a month. It's the beginning of a possible revolution of my music consumption habits. In short, it's a big deal.

What would you do?

preserving the integrity of the English language, part 2

Last summer I wrote a post decrying the use of a powerful word that has since been rendered meaningless by its improper usage and overuse, the word "epic." Today I'd like to talk about another word in common parlance that has suffered even greater mistreatment. The word is "awkward."

If you logged onto Facebook over the weekend you likely saw this captioned photo of (left to right) Matthew Lewis, Rupert Grint, Harry Potter, er, I mean Daniel Radcliffe, and Tom Felton. I imagine it was taken after a performance of the Broadway musical How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying starring Harry Potter as Daniel Radcliffe as J. Pierrepont Finch (was that joke funnier the first or second time? Let me know in the comments below). (Apparently no one told Rupert about the taboo of wearing the t-shirt of the performance you're seeing to the actual performance.)

Image from here

I'm trying to understand this "awkward moment," and in the hope of doing so, I've consulted the collective knowledge of famed lexicographers Noah Webster and the brothers Merriam, Charles and George.

Definition of AWKWARD

1 obsolete : perverse [Had we been discussing the sex appeal of these four young men 10 years ago at the debut of the first Harry Potter film then, yes, this obsolete definition would be quite fitting.]

2 archaic : unfavorable, adverse [Any man might find it unfavorable or adverse to be less attractive than the next guy but Rupert Grint, Daniel Radcliffe and Tom Felton have a fairly large advantage over the "next guy": they were in all those Harry Potter movies.]

3 a : lacking dexterity or skill (as in the use of hands) [This misuse of awkward has nothing to do with dexterity.]

3 b : showing the result of a lack of expertness [Perhaps the author of the caption thought the juxtaposition of Rupert, Daniel and Tom next to ugly-duckling-turned-swan Matthew Lewis appeared awkward, revealing their "lack of expertness" in being "hot." However, since the author is quite clear that the awkwardness lies in Matthew's becoming the "hottest" of the lot, this definition does not fit; in the case of these four gents, I believe overall "hotness" has to do more with heredity than some acquired expertise.]

4 a : lacking ease or grace (as of movement or expression) [Sure, this isn't the most flattering photo of Ron, Harry and Draco but the usage of awkward here has nothing to do with how they look at a given moment.]

4 b : lacking the right proportions, size, or harmony of parts [Uh, one way for things to get awkward quickly would be to start talking about the "harmony of parts" and "proportions." Moving on...]

5 a : lacking social grace and assurance [The fact that these four would pose together for what appears to be a casual photo infers friendship, for which at least a small amount of "social grace and assurance" is required.]

5 b : causing embarrassment [I think this is the definition of awkward the captioneer* had in mind. Who is embarrassed here? Matthew, Rupert, Daniel, and Tom all look quite comfortable in each other's presence. Is this one of those situation where we're supposed to be embarrassed for them? Sure, "that unexpected moment" certainly doesn't have the same ring to it but it's the phrase the captioneer should have used.]

6 : not easy to handle or deal with : requiring great skill, ingenuity, or care [What skill is required to deal with the fact that Matthew Lewis ended up "hotter" than his Harry Potter co-stars?]

I have nothing against the word awkward, I'm simply attempting to advocate its proper use. Consider eliminating the word from your personal vernacular for a few months and employing one of its many synonyms in its place. Your vocabulary will thank you.

*Is it hypocritical of me to use made-up words in a post that deals with the abuse of language?

Alice et le clown

For an assignment in a French writing class a few weeks back, we had to write a quick story using a small bank of words provided in a textbook. I started writing and about three paragraphs in, I went back and reread the instructions -- keep the story 100 words or less. Having written almost three times that, I trimmed my story to fit the assignment.

I revisited the three-paragraph version of the story last week to give it a conclusion. The story is about two friends travelling through Germany. Out of the two, Alice begins to believe she is going crazy as she catches brief glimpses of the same strange clown in each city they visit. Not the most original premise, I know, but I enjoyed writing it. I've hastily titled it "Alice et le clown" ("Alice and the Clown"). I thought about including an English translation but decided against it. So if you can't read French or use Google Translate* you're out of luck.

(I'm sure this thing is rife with errors since my French ain't what it used to be.)

"Alice et le clown"

Nous arrivâmes à la gare de Düsseldorf au départ du dernier train jusqu’au matin. « Zut ! » s’écria Alice, une chère amie avec qui je voyageais depuis une semaine, « Le train est parti ! » Je la rencontrai lors de ma dernière année d’université où j’étudiais la littérature européenne à l’étranger à Londres. Je la vit la première fois à la bibliothèque où elle travaillait et ce fut en m’aidant à trouver un volume rare de Léon Tolstoï que je tombai amoureux avec elle.

Cependant, ces sentiments d’amour n’existaient pas chez elle. Quand même, on s’entendait bien et elle accepta de m’accompagner pendant un voyage de recherche littéraire de deux semaines en Allemagne. Notre premier après-midi à Berlin, en revenant seule d’une sortie pour une tasse de thé, Alice remarqua quelque chose de très bizarre à l’extérieur de notre hôtel : un vieux clown aux cheveux jaunes citron qui portait un habit saumon d’un temps ancien longtemps passé. Quand nous sortîmes ensemble pour dîner le clown n’y était plus.

Deux jours plus tard, Alice le vit entrer un magasin à Hambourg. Curieuse, elle insista que nous le suivions mais dans le magasin on ne trouvait aucun clown. Quand elle l’aperçut à Hanovre le lendemain elle commençait à se croire folle. Et enfin, à Düsseldorf, après l’avoir vu sortir du café où nous terminions le soir, elle demanda en larmes que nous partions pour Paris où habitent ses parents.

Alors, nous sommes seuls au quai de la gare. Des larmes apparaissent aux coins de ses yeux et elles coulent sur ses joues au battement des paupières. Elle se met à grelotter de froid. Je sais qu’elle n’est pas folle mais je n’arrive pas à voir ce qu’elle voit. Je m’approche près d’elle et la serre dans mes bras.

*Unsurprisingly, the Google translation isn't entirely comprehensible but my bad French might be as much to blame for that.

you make my dreams

I spent just enough time driving yesterday to listen to the soundtrack from Amélie by Yann Tiersen. I'd love to be able to write music like this -- instrumental music with great melodies, not necessarily complicated but layered. Here's a sample:

Yann Tiersen - La Valse d'Amelie by nurseda_cagatay

Really, the hardest part of writing a song like this would be composing the melodies, which I think has more to do with inherent talent than a technical knowledge of music.

I had a dream last night that I heard this great arpeggiated chord progression in my head. I struggled to pick it out on the guitar. Eventually I failed to recall the arpeggiation and soon I was unable to play the simple chord progression itself.

In terms of events this dream is far from interesting, but what is interesting is that somehow my brain created this complex melody in my head as I slept. (That or my brain tricked me into thinking I come up with this melody. Which might be likely.)

This isn't the first time my brain has written songs for me during that most sublime form of nocturnal respite known as sleep. Last summer I dreamed about hearing this new Peter Cetera song -- I could hear everything in my head, guitars, keyboard, drums, vocals -- it was all incredibly vivid. (I'm pretty sure my brain drew heavily on Bon Iver's love-it-or-hate-it "Beth/Rest" for inspiration since that song could be tacked on to a Peter Cetera album without anyone knowing the difference.)

My favorite YouTube comment for this video: "this song is like going to a really nice restaurant and getting served a bologna sandwich only to find out that it is the most amazing thing you have ever eaten."

So now I'm trying to determine if I'm really this talented musician while I sleep or if I my brain is just making me think I am.

I'm talking to you, come on

I can't tell if Scout loves or hates music. If I watch movies on my laptop or iPad she likes to investigate and paw at the speakers when there's a swell in the soundtrack. Tonight as I was playing guitar she jumped on the back my chair and started nudging my shoulders with her paws. She's the least affectionate cat ever so I think the nudging is her way of saying, "Please stop."

so many light years to go

I know every family has their own Christmas traditions, but it seems like my family's are a bit more rigid than some. From Christmas Eve on, what we eat, what we do, where we go, where we sleep, what time we wake up, the order in which we open presents have all been cemented by years of repetition.

Our New Year's Eve traditions are far less set in stone because, well, we don't have any. Growing up celebrating New Year's consisting of staying up till midnight and banging pots and pans. Which is cool. But far less exciting than what goes on at Christmas.

How many years does it take for something to become tradition?

Crystal Pier, San Diego, California, January 1, 2011

I spent the beginning of last year in San Diego with some dear friends, Jackie, Deena and Chip, and Afton. Back in September or October, Chip and Deena and I talked about making a repeat trip for New Year's 2012. Sadly, Afton and Jackie weren't as enthused about creating this annual tradition but Chip and Deena were.

This year, instead of heading straight to San Diego -- where Deena's folks have a condo -- we decided to make a New Year's Eve pit stop at the happiest place on earth.

Disneyland, Anaheim, California, January 1, 2012. Note the empty medical stretcher in the background.

I hadn't been to Disneyland since 2004 so it was great to be back, even if the crowds were among the most dense I've seen anywhere.

Sunday was quite a lazy day but I didn't mind as it gave me time to start rereading one my favorite books.

I don't understand why more people don't love this book as much as I do.

Monday before heading back we had breakfast on the beach, did some shopping and spent a bit of time downtown. Here I am at the Ghirardelli shop enjoying an overpriced butterscotch sundae:

Slowly eating my way to diabetes.

I suppose time will tell whether or not this trip becomes an annual New Year's tradition. I certainly won't mind if it does as I have yet to have a bad time in Southern California.

of pizza, dancing, and regret

I got a pizza stone for Christmas so, naturally, one of my goals for 2012 is to learn how to toss a pizza. Fortunately, world champion pizza tossers like Tony Gemignani are gracious enough to provide instruction via YouTube:

At the beginning of December I somehow acquired an uncharacteristic desire to learn how to tap dance. Because why not, right? At the end of the year I hope that you'll expect a similar performance from me:

Looks like I need to learn how to do the splits too.

I hate how fast 2011 flew by. I think part of the reason it did was because during certain parts of the year I wanted it to. In particular, I remember wanting the summer to fly by. I was anxious to establish a decent running habit, a feat not so easily accomplished in our summer desert (limit myself much?). And I knew I'd be starting school again in the fall and was looking forward to that. So with eyes focused on future, the summer really did fly by. Looking back, I'm reminded of how Yoda described Luke Skywalker in my favorite movie ever, "All his life has he looked away... to the future, to the horizon. Never his mind on where he was. Hmm? What he was doing. Hmph."

I've never had anyone tell me that life seems to pass by slower as you get older. I have yet to hear that. Time only seems to go by faster and I don't anticipate that ever stopping. I'm not advocating the practice of hanging on the past; I just know that I can enjoy life despite an unfavorable environment, despite the hype of an exciting event in the near future. It's just plain stupid that I would wish for a part of my life to go by faster than it should. I hope that I never do that again.

in defense of pie

I have yet to meet someone who doesn't like cookies. Or cake. I've met a few people who don't like cupcakes. Which I don't understand. Because if you like cake why wouldn't you like cupcakes? Maybe those people just don't like that cupcakes have been the "it" dessert over the past couple years, and it is therefore cool to hate cupcakes, the same way hipsters are required to hate any semblance of mainstream. I'd be lying if I said that I've never adopted that attitude at one time or another.

Image from here.

What I don't understand, though, is when people tell me they don't like pie. I just don't get it. Really, what is not to like? Flaky, buttery pastry crust. Rich, overflowing fillings. I mean, c'mon. Sure, I get that some people don't like fruit and that they like it less when it's all soft and mushy, but don't they know that pies come in non-fruit varieties? French silk (fancy for chocolate pie) was my favorite as a teenager. You can make a pie out of anything: I've seen brownie pies, cheesecake pies, pies made from peanut butter, Oreos, ice cream. A favorite regional dessert in Quebec is tarte au sucre or sugar pie (think pecan pie without the pecans).

Clowns have no respect for pie.

— Demetri Martin (@DemetriMartin) December 23, 2011

And what about lemon meringue, key lime, and pumpkin pies? Yeah, they're fruit-based but they lack the fruit chunks of an apple or cherry pie that might scare away a frugaphobe*. And for those that dislike cooked fruit, I've made my fair share of peach pies whose filling never saw an oven. I dare you to find something wrong with sweetened fresh fruit and a tasty crust.

To any pie haters out there reading this post I strongly urge you to reconsider your prejudice. You're only excluding yourself from a realm of decadence so uncommon in the dessert world.

*A word that I made up to describe someone who doesn't like fruit.

this much delight

This week, taste-making music blogs like Pitchfork and Consequence of Sound reported their top 50 albums of 2011. I'm always curious to read through these lists, although I never have the desire or capacity to verify most of the releases. As I perused this year's rankings -- which I often disagree with, even if CoS was a little more "on" than Pitchfork this year -- I was reminded of a tweet I stumbled across back in August:

in my old age, my gripes with "the kids" isn't that their music is too loud or obnoxious, it's that their music is too safe and boring.

— brian cook (@bbcbubblegutz) August 11, 2011

I don't know this Brian Cook guy -- a musician, I believe -- but he couldn't have voiced my thoughts on the state of modern music any better. (Also, how awesome is Twitter's new "Embed this Tweet" function?) It's no surprise then that my favorite album from 2011 is neither safe nor boring.

The Big Roar by The Joy Formidable

One Tuesday morning last April my buddy Buster sent me a text, "Are you going to The Joy Formidable show tonight?" Having only heard of them I hopped on Grooveshark (I believe this was the pre-Spotify era) and listened to a couple tracks from the The Big Roar. I liked it. I replied to Buster, "Count me in."

OK, I know I'm not an old man but sometimes I feel one. I miss the days when I had the wherewithal and vitality to go see a band relatively unknown to me, and on a "school night," as older folk are prone to say. Going to see The Joy Formidable that evening hearkened back to my high school days when the only thing stopping me from going to just any old show was, well, nothing.

That night ended up being one of the best on-a-whim shows I've been to in recent memory (and not because they've been fewer than I'd like). At a visit to the Joy Formidable merch table, I happily surrendered the cash to purchase The Big Roar and now, with new ears, comparing the album to the band's, um, truly formidable live performance, I discovered one of those rare records nearly capable of what studio albums can only really attempt, capturing the energy of a live performance.

This video is from a year and a half ago so they're a little unpolished and Ritzy sings a bit flat at times but hey, that's rock and roll.

There aren't too many bands out there that mix rock, punk and pop as well as The Joy Formidable, and even fewer doing so with the economy of a three member line-up. They're destined for a bright future, and by extension, so is rock and roll:

Every time I listen to @joyformidable my faith in the future of Rock is restored

— Buster Heine (@bst3r) November 30, 2011

Amen, brother.

bedtime

I might be getting sick. I'm not surprised because there's definitely something going around. And I haven't been eating well, and keeping my apartment dust-free is a daily battle to which I too often resign to defeat, which won't be much of a help in fighting off any potential illness.

It was my intention to stay up a little later to work on my French term paper -- my very first "graduate" project -- that I am embarrassingly behind on, but if my body is threatening sickness, I'm probably better off fighting it now by getting some sleep.

Scout -- my dear feline companion -- is in heat right now, which might be one of the most annoying things ever. Especially with all the rolling around she does on my couch -- I don't know how or why such a small cat manages to produce so much extra hair (Jenny knows how badly my couch collects pet hair (because she gave me said couch)). When Christmas is over and I'm a little less busy I'm getting her spayed.

Oh yeah, the other day Scout peed in my bathroom sink. Yeah, I was a little mad at her, but I was more amazed than anything that she would know to go in a place where it drains and wouldn't make a huge mess. She's a smart cat. But why she didn't go in her little box is beyond me, she hasn't done anything like that since she was a tiny kitten.

And she seems to enjoy depositing hairballs around my apartment, like the one she left me on my bed last week. Today's hairball -- at the foot of my bed -- was thankfully a bit easier to clean up. The next place I live will have a yard where she can frolic, shed, roll around, throw up, and urinate as she pleases.

A lot of people like to include photos in their blog posts. I do too, most of the time. But only when it really adds something to the post or when the photo is the focus of the post itself. Otherwise, I feel like adding photos is pandering, at least when I do it. Because, for me, blogging has mostly been about writing. Not because I'm good at it, but because, simply, I like writing and I like reading. So even though I could share several photos here -- the piles of dust in my apartment I sweep up so often (aging brick walls are incredibly overrated) or some of Scout's hairballs -- I'm choosing not to include any in this post because sometimes it feels good to just write.

Also, I think some of my neighbors might be drinking, they're being uncharacteristically loud.

and one more thing

The other day I finished listening to the audio of this book:

Image from here.

In the past, I've described Apple products as phenomenal (iPod, iPad), smug (iPhone), too rich for my blood (Mac), and a necessary evil (iTunes). After listening to this biography, I've gained a great respect for Apple's integrity in the creation these products. Steve himself described it best:

My passion has been to build an enduring company where people were motivated to make great products. Everything else was secondary. Sure, it was great to make a profit, because that was what allowed you make great products. But the products, not the profits, were the motivation.

Interestingly, Apple -- a company with little concern for profit, supposedly -- is one of the most valuable enterprises in the world. (I wonder what would happen if we applied that same integrity, passion, and outlook to everything we undertake in our lives.) And while I'm not about to go out and buy a brand new Mac or switch my Droid for an iPhone, my general opinion for these products has certainly increased.

Steve Jobs' commencement speech at the 2005 Standford graduation has become somewhat legendary. Walter Isaacson said of this address:

The artful minimalism of the speech gave it simplicity, purity, and charm. Search were you will, from anthologies to YouTube, and you won't find a better commencement address. Others may have been more important . . . but none has had more grace.

If you haven't heard it yet, you owe yourself the 15 minutes it takes to listen:

"Because believing that the dots will connect somewhere down the road will give you the confidence to follow your heart, even when it leads you off the well worn path. And that will make all the difference."

P.S. I went the audiobook route on this one because:
a. I can't say that I've ever completed a biography, so I thought I'd have better luck listening to this one rather than reading.
b. I don't have time to read right now (I don't really have time for blogging either, but here I am); but I can always listen to audiobooks while driving, working, cleaning my apartment, walking my cat, making dinner, etc.
c. I was able to score a free version from Audible.com.

P.P.S. I don't really walk my cat (though I daresay she could benefit from it).

P.P.P.S. It's only fitting that I finish writing this post on my new iPad (the acquisition of which was more a coincidence than a result of having pseudo-read this book).

guest post: free, exploring, undirected

A couple weeks ago I asked my friend Clint if he'd like to do a Steinbeck post for my blog and he kindly acquiesced by providing me with the following below. When you're done reading, you will undoubtedly want to read more of Clint's writings. So you will thank me for providing the link to Clint's blog, which you will find here. And now, Clint:

John Steinbeck is pretty much the only author that when I read his words, I spend time trying to imagine him writing them. I don't do that with David Sedaris or Dave Eggers or whoever it is that authors all the For Dummies books that I read, because that would be excruciatingly boring. Where is the romance in imagining a pajama-clad modernite silently tapping on a whispy-thin laptop while sipping a Slimfast and balancing on an exercise ball? (I do sometimes imagine Cormac McCarthy at work, but not intentionally, nor for long periods because in my mind it's mostly just him sitting at a desk made of the corpses of drug traffickers and dipping his long-nailed fingers into an ink bottle filled with horse blood.)

But there is something about Steinbeck's work that makes me just wish I could have been there while he clacked it into existence on his typewriter. Sometimes it's young Steinbeck, the one that's only marginally affected by hairline recession and adorned in what appears to be laborer's clothing. Sometimes it's old Steinbeck, visuals of whom could easily be confused with Walt Disney. But most frequently, it's the middle aged John, a ragged-looking cigarette in his hand, and his wrinkles just starting to find their footing on either side of his mouth.

In my mind, his house has lots of wood paneling, a well stocked aquarium and humongous bookcases chock full of classics that we would occasionally discuss, agreeing to disagree about Prince Hamlet's degree of sanity. I would stand just to the side, reading over his shoulder as he wrote. I'd watch the following words appear between the fluttering of typebars:

"And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected."

I'd soak it in for a moment and then say "You know that is going to piss off Hemingway, right?" to which Steinbeck would turn around and say "Ya' think?" and then offer me a high five. He'd start typing again and there'd be some talk of maybe starting a softball league come spring, but it would never materialize, which is no big deal because of course I understand that he's busy writing--which is obviously the way I want it.

poet laureate

I'd be really interested to hear the thoughts of my artist and art loving friends regarding the matter below. I'm not trying to solicit anything here, I'm just genuinely curious.

A couple weeks ago I mentioned that I'm currently enrolled in a French literature class where we study 19th century French theater pieces. The second play we read was called Chatterton by Alfred de Vigny. It's a fictionalized account of a real-life English poet named Thomas Chatterton who lived during the middle of the 18th century. This play depicts the plight of Chatterton, a young man struggling to earn a living as a poet. In the end (spoiler alert), when he fails to do so he kills himself. (According to Wikipedia, the real Chatterton "died of arsenic poisoning, either from a suicide attempt or self-medication for a venereal disease." Either way, tragic.) (Incidentally, his death date is my birthday.)

The Death of Chatterton by Henry Wallis. Poor guy. Image from here.

For every piece we read in this class we're supposed to write a paper expounding upon a theme or topic found in the piece. For Chatterton, one subject my teacher suggested for such a paper was the role of the poet in society. Her opinion is that the poet is a guide for the people, a person who gives inspiration and enlightenment. And in order to produce works of such enlightenment and inspiration, a poet needs time for constant reflection and pondering -- time that should not be lost in the pursuit of earning one's living, as a factory worker, or a cobbler, or a mason, or whatever it was people did for work in the 18th century. Therefore, as a guide for the people, it is then the people's duty -- or really, the government's duty -- to provide for the living of the poet.

Now, in theory, I don't necessarily disagree with that sentiment. While I'm not much of poetry reader, I enjoy literature, fiction, stories -- dare I say? -- more than the next guy. Not only do I find enjoyment in prose, poetry's sibling, I find a great deal of insight, hope, and wisdom therein. There's no doubt that the written word has been vital to my general well being as a human. I very much agree that writers, whatever their medium, contribute much to the enrichment of our society.

This sentiment in practice, however, is a different story. For one, sadly, not everyone in the society to which I belong will like reading as much as I do. I have friends who celebrate how little they read. That's fine, that's OK. They have different interests, to which they are just as entitled, that I will not begrudge them. Maybe, someone can find just as much meaning in, I don't know, football as I find in reading and re-reading some of my favorite books. (The same can be said for music, or photography, or painting, or film, or sculpture, or name your preferred form of art). So, what complex society of such differing interests and passions will support the poet or writer but not the photographer or painter? Or, is it up to society to provide a living for all these supposedly invaluable artists?

Furthermore, in a society whose government supports the poet/writer/guide-of-the-people, who or what determines who gets to be town poet? Let's say that in a society of 100 working adults there'd be room for one poet. The rest of the working population would have to fill the other important posts: baker, grocer, thatcher, tailor, cooper (someone's gotta make the town's barrels), butcher, farmer, and you get the point. But, what if in this same community, there are 10 individuals who want to be town poet but society has the means to provide for only one? What is the fate of the other nine wannabe poets? Do they kill themselves because they think that poetry is the only profession in which they would find success and enjoyment, just like Vigny's version of Thomas Chatteron?

Anyway, I've been wondering about all this lately -- because being town poet would be a pretty sweet job.

Additional Reading: "Distressed Nation Turns To Poet Laureate For Solace"

David and Return of the Jedi

Only three people have ever beaten me at Star Wars Trivial Pursuit: my brother Matt, of course, my friend Joby, and most recently, David here. Though in my defense, when I played David a few weeks ago it was an extremely close game: he won only after I answered my final question incorrectly, and had I gone with my gut feeling I would've got that question right (life lesson here?). In the end though, David is the kind of guy I don't mind losing to.

Notes:
Whoa, what would Star Wars be like without John Williams' masterful score? I don't even want to think about it. Return of the Jedi includes some of my favorite Star Wars compositions, like "Luke and Leia" and "The Death of Darth Vader". John Williams has set the gold standard for fantasy and adventure movie soundtracks -- something he did well before Return of the Jedi.

in another life

One of the best jobs I've ever had was on campus at BYU-Idaho. One afternoon in late spring I was perusing job listings on the BYU-I website when I noticed there was an opening for one of the most coveted student jobs -- grounds crew. These spots always filled up fast so I ran to the hiring office immediately. I was surprised that they didn't ask me any questions, didn't want a résumé, didn't have me fill out an application -- they simply hired me on the spot.

My crew spent the rest of that spring and part of the summer landscaping -- leveling earth, laying sod, planting shrubs and trees. We were assigned to an area of campus that had been an unsightly patch of dirt for over a year. It was so easy to feel satisfied with this job because we could see the direct results of our work. When we were done that vacant swath looked a little something like this:

Yeah, I did all that. You're welcome BYU-Idaho. Image from here.

The only downside to this job? It paid crap (like most student jobs on campus). When finding a job why does pay have to be so important? Maybe a better question way to ask that question is why is it so important to maintain a lifestyle that teeters between comfortable and affluent? How can I get by on less and either save more money or have a job that I enjoy more but maybe pays less? While I ponder these questions (please feel free to add your two cents), here are two more jobs I think I'd love if money was of zero concern:

toutes les grandes personnes ont d'abord été des enfants

Le Petit Prince was the first book I read completely in French. Which is not much of a feat because it's a children's book. But children's book or not (I'd describe it as a children's book for adults), it's one of my favorite books -- I've read it a good five or six times.

I would love to own a first edition copy of this book. Image from here.

More than once I've encouraged friends to learn French in order to enjoy this book in its purest form. And more than once I've wanted to read it in English just to see if the feeling is the same. But each time I try I end up feeling like reading it in English would be a waste of time in comparison or that it would somehow cheapen the original French version.

In my nineteenth century French theater class* we just finished reading a piece called On ne badine pas avec l'amour by Alfred de Musset (rough translation of title: Don't Mess Around With Love). At the end of the final scene of the second act is my favorite passage from all that we've read so far this semester:

[M]ais il y a au monde une chose sainte et sublime, c'est l'union de deux de ces êtres si imparfaits et si affreux. On est souvent trompé en amour, souvent blessé et souvent malheureux ; mais on aime, et quand on est sur le bord de sa tombe, on se retourne pour regarder en arrière, et on se dit : J'ai souffert souvent, je me suis trompé quelquefois, mais j'ai aimé. C'est moi qui ai vécu, et non pas un être factice créé par mon orgueil et mon ennui.

I wish I had more French speaking friends with whom I could share such passages. So instead I'll just pretend that you all understood that and enjoyed it as much as I did.

*When I tell people I'm taking a nineteenth century French theater class they usually think it's a performance class. Nope. Sadly, it's merely a literature class.

Brian and IV

To be honest, it'd be a bit of a stretch to say that Brian and I have bonded over this album. No, our friendship was forged from a different fire, a literal fire, one that launched model rockets hundreds of feet into the air. A fire that could have gotten us in trouble with the law. Yes, I'm making vague, confusing allusions to the time that we launched model rockets at the local high school baseball field late at night (read all about it here, fourth paragraph in).

In addition to a penchant for model rocketry, Brian and I also share similar professions. We're both accountants, although our respective functions as such differ greatly.

Notes:
I think IV by Led Zeppelin was the first classic rock album I owned on CD (I didn't pick it up on vinyl until 2008). It was a sort of chicken-egg scenario: I either bought that album because I was learning how to play "Stairway to Heaven" (as apparently every budding guitarist should), or I was learning "Stairway to Heaven" because I bought the album. I was 15 or 16 at the time so I don't recall the exact circumstances.

It quickly became one of my favorite classic rock albums and remains one to this day.