"Yessir, Broad Street used to jump. Between here and, uh, up, uh, yessir, was about seven bars up and down here, people all out at this time a night."
The speaker was an old man, or maybe older-looking than he really was. He had one eye cloudy and one leg incapacitated, aided by a cane.
"You must be new here," he'd said, when I seemed uncertain whether to fill his 72 oz. thermos with coffee or soda. "Usually it's the tall guy with the hat who's here when I come in. They know me, he knows me."
He muttered as he spoke, often repeating himself, either within a phrase, or repeating phrases and stories.
"I used to be a shoeshine boy here, right out under here, when this was the Boston Store."
The Boston Store logo is still tiled in front of the bookstore.
"So here's my question," I said, interrupting the third iteration of that story, "Where was Broad Street? This is Third," I gestured out the picture windows, where the christmas lights strung along the top of the Broad Street Market shone, "And the cross street is Verbeke."
"Yessir, that side a'the market was Broad, and t'other was Verbeke, until, well, until, well this used to be a thee-Ater. The Broad Street The-Ater. And they was twelve of 'em, the-Aters, up and down this street, between the Capital and um, the, well, yessir, it used to hop, this street, fifty years ago."
The XM Satellite Radio was, it should be noted, set to "40s on 4: All Forties All The Time."
"Yessir, there was seven or maybe eight bars up and down this street, and the uh, the railroad men -- the piggyback cars, y'see, up at Seventh and Reily, and the railroad men'd come down here, and the market stay open till three in the mornin'. Three in the mornin', yessir, not like now."
I kept nodding, kept washing out milk steaming pitchers till they shone like mirrors. He was describing the 1960s, if his estimate of "fifty years ago" was correct.
"There were those bars, and the restaruant -- Arnick's. The Arnick family closed it down, but it ran right next to the market, and that and this here the-Ater, well you could barely walk on this street on a weekend night." He glanced into the empty bookstore. My co-barista walked the floor with a white towel, wiping down the tables, gathering the books. He looked back into the street. "Not like now."
I nodded, perplexed. The bookstore became the Boston Store in the 1950s, so this place could not have been a theater during the time that this man was describing, but nonetheless I could see it: The same Christmas lights bedecking the market, the railroad men like inland sailors, swinging into town with the same manic destructive energy of a shore leave.
"Yessir, it was quite the times then. I ran a shoeshine stand right here, and let me tell you, the folks all out, all done up, and yessir, Broad Street did jump. I live upstairs y'see. That's my truck. I been on this square block for forty years now."
He said forty, but by that time, I would've believed him if he had said ninety.
"Maybe it'll all come back, now that he's brought this place in. Y'all are open late, y'see, maybe the market'll open up into..."
And he walked out into the night, still muttering to himself.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
(Arts and) Crafts
I) Intro
The distinction between arts and crafts (or "art" and "craft") is I'm sure, though I have never formally studied art, a topic of interesting discussion, with numerous scholarly articles weighing in on either side, and many, in this world of "post-," denying or reframing the binary. Though I little to no background in this, I will share my thoughts. If any of you more-educated folks care to share some articles whose points I am rehashing or would find salient, please let me know. I recognize also that there is a particular movement in art known as the "arts and crafts movement." I know very little about this, and it is not what I am writing about.
In a nutshell, I would like to define craft as a matter of control, and art as a matter of... something else. Perhaps "expression" is an appropriate term to use, but I am not set on that. I'm more interested in craft anyway.
II) Craft as Control
It was my practice as a musician that led me to this definition of art v. craft. I was a mediocre percussion student under Chick Sperell for a few semesters at Swarthmore, and he, as he assessed my progress and dealt with my frustration at the seemingly endless rhythm, polyrhythm, tempo, rudiment, etc. exercises, gave me this framework. "These are your tools," he said, "and you need to be skilled enough with your tools to pull out any one at any time you need it. You need choices, and if you're not skilled, you limit your choices musically." This part that he used the word "musically" to indicate is what I will refer to as "art." But first, craft: what Chick was saying about craft is that craft is control. A good musical craftsperson can control exactly what s/he is doing musically. As a drummer, playing alone in a silent room, I can vary tempo, rhythm, playing surface (head, rim, sides), etc. at my will. The more able I am to switch from one basic unit (ie, playing in duple time; 1/8ths, 1/16ths, etc. to playing in triple time; triplets) the more control I have. Thus, pure craft would be an ability to, at any time, make any sound possible from the drums I have.
This is not really a realistic goal. I doubt that even Buddy Rich could always, every time, make some brand new shift while playing, but it is the extreme. To use another example from my own musical experience, the banjo. Bela Fleck, I have no doubt, can, at any moment, make any note that is possible given the physical restrictions of the banjo (ie, absolute low and absolute high notes, as constrained by string lengths and tensions). I, however, cannot. He is therefore a better craftsman than I am.
III) Art and Craft
The art in this example would come out in what music critics refer to as "musicality." Fleck, for instance, sometimes gets accused of making albums that, while technically accomplished (full of craft, for our purposes), are musically repetitive, empty, trippy, etc. This is a misapplication of artistry.
Art, then, is separate from craft. Even the perfect drummer, who can, at any moment, make any sound she chooses (as constrained by the physical realities of drums), must, in a group setting, make choices that are musical. The range of choices she can make are expanded every time she expands her repertoire of rhythms -- every time she broadens her craft -- but if she applies those rhythms wrongly (playing a samba beat during a jazz waltz) she has made bad art.
Art, then, is in/formed by craft. Good art, however, can come from a bad craftsman. Think of the Delta Bluesmen, formally unskilled, only able to play a few chord progressions, yet makers of powerful, powerful music; or of the early Punk rockers, unable to "play" their instruments, yet also responsible for artistically viable creation. They had some level of craft (otherwise they would have been unable to make music, by my definitions of craft and art (by extension, music)), but their shortcomings as craftsmen did not hinder their art. These examples encourage me.
IV) Crafts?
I am still figuring out what to say to those who "make crafts." The traditional distinction between art and craft (as I understand it) is that art is decorative/expressive and craft is functional. The shortcomings of this distinction hit home for me as one who appreciates/makes folk music. Is a sea chanty, a work song, a craft (useful because its rhythm keeps the sailors hauling together) or an art (expressive of the realities of a particular chanteyman or a particular cultural moment)?
What are "crafts," if "craft" is the rudimentary skills that enable artists to create art. Are well-designed and well-made coasters art? Are functional objects merely exercises, a drummer sitting alone in room tapping out paradiddles, or is there some aspect of "craft" that I have overlooked?
To be continued?
As I demonstrate my lack of blogging craftsmanship, showing neither brevity nor a particular coherence in this post...
The distinction between arts and crafts (or "art" and "craft") is I'm sure, though I have never formally studied art, a topic of interesting discussion, with numerous scholarly articles weighing in on either side, and many, in this world of "post-," denying or reframing the binary. Though I little to no background in this, I will share my thoughts. If any of you more-educated folks care to share some articles whose points I am rehashing or would find salient, please let me know. I recognize also that there is a particular movement in art known as the "arts and crafts movement." I know very little about this, and it is not what I am writing about.
In a nutshell, I would like to define craft as a matter of control, and art as a matter of... something else. Perhaps "expression" is an appropriate term to use, but I am not set on that. I'm more interested in craft anyway.
II) Craft as Control
It was my practice as a musician that led me to this definition of art v. craft. I was a mediocre percussion student under Chick Sperell for a few semesters at Swarthmore, and he, as he assessed my progress and dealt with my frustration at the seemingly endless rhythm, polyrhythm, tempo, rudiment, etc. exercises, gave me this framework. "These are your tools," he said, "and you need to be skilled enough with your tools to pull out any one at any time you need it. You need choices, and if you're not skilled, you limit your choices musically." This part that he used the word "musically" to indicate is what I will refer to as "art." But first, craft: what Chick was saying about craft is that craft is control. A good musical craftsperson can control exactly what s/he is doing musically. As a drummer, playing alone in a silent room, I can vary tempo, rhythm, playing surface (head, rim, sides), etc. at my will. The more able I am to switch from one basic unit (ie, playing in duple time; 1/8ths, 1/16ths, etc. to playing in triple time; triplets) the more control I have. Thus, pure craft would be an ability to, at any time, make any sound possible from the drums I have.
This is not really a realistic goal. I doubt that even Buddy Rich could always, every time, make some brand new shift while playing, but it is the extreme. To use another example from my own musical experience, the banjo. Bela Fleck, I have no doubt, can, at any moment, make any note that is possible given the physical restrictions of the banjo (ie, absolute low and absolute high notes, as constrained by string lengths and tensions). I, however, cannot. He is therefore a better craftsman than I am.
III) Art and Craft
The art in this example would come out in what music critics refer to as "musicality." Fleck, for instance, sometimes gets accused of making albums that, while technically accomplished (full of craft, for our purposes), are musically repetitive, empty, trippy, etc. This is a misapplication of artistry.
Art, then, is separate from craft. Even the perfect drummer, who can, at any moment, make any sound she chooses (as constrained by the physical realities of drums), must, in a group setting, make choices that are musical. The range of choices she can make are expanded every time she expands her repertoire of rhythms -- every time she broadens her craft -- but if she applies those rhythms wrongly (playing a samba beat during a jazz waltz) she has made bad art.
Art, then, is in/formed by craft. Good art, however, can come from a bad craftsman. Think of the Delta Bluesmen, formally unskilled, only able to play a few chord progressions, yet makers of powerful, powerful music; or of the early Punk rockers, unable to "play" their instruments, yet also responsible for artistically viable creation. They had some level of craft (otherwise they would have been unable to make music, by my definitions of craft and art (by extension, music)), but their shortcomings as craftsmen did not hinder their art. These examples encourage me.
IV) Crafts?
I am still figuring out what to say to those who "make crafts." The traditional distinction between art and craft (as I understand it) is that art is decorative/expressive and craft is functional. The shortcomings of this distinction hit home for me as one who appreciates/makes folk music. Is a sea chanty, a work song, a craft (useful because its rhythm keeps the sailors hauling together) or an art (expressive of the realities of a particular chanteyman or a particular cultural moment)?
What are "crafts," if "craft" is the rudimentary skills that enable artists to create art. Are well-designed and well-made coasters art? Are functional objects merely exercises, a drummer sitting alone in room tapping out paradiddles, or is there some aspect of "craft" that I have overlooked?
To be continued?
As I demonstrate my lack of blogging craftsmanship, showing neither brevity nor a particular coherence in this post...
Friday, July 22, 2011
Fi'ty
Remember my story about the guy who sang the catchy little ditty about a book for his girlfriend?
Well the saga of Fi'ty has come to a sad end.
After the day I refused him fifty cents, Fi'ty became one of our better regulars at the store, asking for free water and napping quietly and unobtrusively upstairs in the lounge. If there's one thing I've learned at this job, there are plenty of loud and obtrusive ways to nap, and this guy was a nap pro. No snoring, no stinky feet, no disruptive sounds, no accosting other customers who took his couch; in short, just the kind of regular we want to have around.
So it was with great surprise that, one Tuesday, driving downtown, I saw Fi'ty getting hauled into the back of a police cruiser. Surprise, but not shock or horror; plenty of folks in Harrisburg have the cops after them. As "Isaac Newton" told me once "Sometimes the cops got it out for ya, but they can't be out following every warrant every night, and it's best to get to know the ones you can." I figured Fi'ty had stumbled into some minor trouble. My upstairs neighbor at my new place had received a notice bearing the words "I am authorized to arrest you on sight" because of a surfeit of unpaid parking tickets, so Fi'ty's arrest was something passed right through my mind that night.
Of course, it shouldn't have. Earlier that week, an acquaintance was filling me in on an armed robbery at a local handicraft shop. "Robbing that place was his first mistake," he said, "A craft store? What was he after? Screen printed T-shirts?"
You have by now realized that the robber was none other than Fi'ty, and no, he was not after screen printed t-shirts. Yes, he went about his robbery in an unfortunately ill-prepared manner. According to the Patriot News' reportage, he entered the store, browsed awhile, then pulled on a ski mask and, threatening the clerk with a knife, took all the money from the cash drawer. He was arrested a few hours later with all the money still on him. He was sitting on a stoop a few blocks away on the same street. Re-read those last sentences and realize how little premeditation went into this crime. He had the money on him. He put on the ski mask after entering the store. He was sitting on a stoop on the same street. It was on the stoop that I saw Fi'ty getting taken away.
This story raises an important postscript: What does one say to an acquaintance after he is released from jail? Should he be allowed back into the store? After all, as Beth (one of my managers) pointed out, "He wouldn't rob us. He sleeps here," demonstrating a clear understanding of the principle of "you don't shit where you eat." Still, should re-entry be denied as a consequence, a loss of the (business) community's trust in Fi'ty? And why are these decisions left to the business community? Is the regular community in a place to welcome Fi'ty back from jail and take steps to ensure that he doesn't do things that lead back there?
And of course, the P.P.S. that, comically and tragically, ran through my head anytime news about this whole story was broken to me: "Fi'ty cent / Fi'ty cent / book for my girlfrien' / fi'ty cent."
Well the saga of Fi'ty has come to a sad end.
After the day I refused him fifty cents, Fi'ty became one of our better regulars at the store, asking for free water and napping quietly and unobtrusively upstairs in the lounge. If there's one thing I've learned at this job, there are plenty of loud and obtrusive ways to nap, and this guy was a nap pro. No snoring, no stinky feet, no disruptive sounds, no accosting other customers who took his couch; in short, just the kind of regular we want to have around.
So it was with great surprise that, one Tuesday, driving downtown, I saw Fi'ty getting hauled into the back of a police cruiser. Surprise, but not shock or horror; plenty of folks in Harrisburg have the cops after them. As "Isaac Newton" told me once "Sometimes the cops got it out for ya, but they can't be out following every warrant every night, and it's best to get to know the ones you can." I figured Fi'ty had stumbled into some minor trouble. My upstairs neighbor at my new place had received a notice bearing the words "I am authorized to arrest you on sight" because of a surfeit of unpaid parking tickets, so Fi'ty's arrest was something passed right through my mind that night.
Of course, it shouldn't have. Earlier that week, an acquaintance was filling me in on an armed robbery at a local handicraft shop. "Robbing that place was his first mistake," he said, "A craft store? What was he after? Screen printed T-shirts?"
You have by now realized that the robber was none other than Fi'ty, and no, he was not after screen printed t-shirts. Yes, he went about his robbery in an unfortunately ill-prepared manner. According to the Patriot News' reportage, he entered the store, browsed awhile, then pulled on a ski mask and, threatening the clerk with a knife, took all the money from the cash drawer. He was arrested a few hours later with all the money still on him. He was sitting on a stoop a few blocks away on the same street. Re-read those last sentences and realize how little premeditation went into this crime. He had the money on him. He put on the ski mask after entering the store. He was sitting on a stoop on the same street. It was on the stoop that I saw Fi'ty getting taken away.
This story raises an important postscript: What does one say to an acquaintance after he is released from jail? Should he be allowed back into the store? After all, as Beth (one of my managers) pointed out, "He wouldn't rob us. He sleeps here," demonstrating a clear understanding of the principle of "you don't shit where you eat." Still, should re-entry be denied as a consequence, a loss of the (business) community's trust in Fi'ty? And why are these decisions left to the business community? Is the regular community in a place to welcome Fi'ty back from jail and take steps to ensure that he doesn't do things that lead back there?
And of course, the P.P.S. that, comically and tragically, ran through my head anytime news about this whole story was broken to me: "Fi'ty cent / Fi'ty cent / book for my girlfrien' / fi'ty cent."
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Fulfillment
Fulfillment -- heralded by religions and self-help books, achieved, today, by yours truly.
It was minor fulfillment, more in the sense of fulfillment of a mission than the sort of deep fulfillment promised by the above. But there is a consonance, and one that should be neither overlooked nor over-exaggerated.
It is important, for this story, to know that pour-over coffee is a brewing style currently all the rage in the coffeehouse scene. It allows the barista to control, via speed and timing of pouring, the flavor of the cup of coffee, in addition to the usual parameters of temperature of water, and the relative and actual amounts of water and coffee grounds.
All that to say, it's a way to make really good coffee or really bad coffee, and the finished product can be mostly credited to (or blamed on) the skill of the barista.
It was with a pour-over that I found fulfillment.
I poured the last bit of water through coffee grounds, let it drip into his cup, and handed it off to him. He sipped it, paused, and sipped it again.
"Ehh?" I said, asking for confirmation of what I had told him before he ordered: this was going to be good coffee.
"That is good," he said. "In fact," he paused again -- he is a very precise type of person, not one to say something unconsidered, "This is the best cup of coffee I have ever had. This--" by this point I was beaming "--is coffee non plus ultra."
Thus, I fulfilled my barista role, by making the best cup of coffee ever.
I was, it should be noted, working with great coffee to begin with: Counter Culture's Kilenso Mokonisa. Most of CC's coffees are great, but this one is the kind of coffee that makes even the untutored sit up and take notice. It is a "natural sundried coffee," which means that the fruity part of the coffee (the cherry) is left intact (surrounding the bean) while the coffee is dried in the sun for a period of a few weeks to a few months. This process allows the natural fruit flavors of the coffee cherry to leach into the coffee bean, producing a flavor like the artificially-flavored coffees (blueberry, raspberry, etc.) found in so many coffeeshops, yet far more complex and subtle.
All that to say that he was more likely to notice this coffee than any other coffee, that the pump had been primed by his awareness of pour-over as a method endorsed by the coffee-geek subculture; all that to say that he's a regular, and could have been flattering me.
But I saw his face when he first sipped that cup, and I knew then that I had done exactly what this job is all about. The idea that life can be surprising; that another world is possible; that a cup of coffee can be so much more than a cup of coffee; these are tenets of my faith, and central to my vocation, and to find them expressed so clearly in so mundane a moment at work was inspiring.
Life will go on; the struggles at the bookstore/coffeeshop are not resolved, nor is anything outside of work, but I have done it. I have made the perfect cup of coffee.
It was minor fulfillment, more in the sense of fulfillment of a mission than the sort of deep fulfillment promised by the above. But there is a consonance, and one that should be neither overlooked nor over-exaggerated.
It is important, for this story, to know that pour-over coffee is a brewing style currently all the rage in the coffeehouse scene. It allows the barista to control, via speed and timing of pouring, the flavor of the cup of coffee, in addition to the usual parameters of temperature of water, and the relative and actual amounts of water and coffee grounds.
All that to say, it's a way to make really good coffee or really bad coffee, and the finished product can be mostly credited to (or blamed on) the skill of the barista.
It was with a pour-over that I found fulfillment.
I poured the last bit of water through coffee grounds, let it drip into his cup, and handed it off to him. He sipped it, paused, and sipped it again.
"Ehh?" I said, asking for confirmation of what I had told him before he ordered: this was going to be good coffee.
"That is good," he said. "In fact," he paused again -- he is a very precise type of person, not one to say something unconsidered, "This is the best cup of coffee I have ever had. This--" by this point I was beaming "--is coffee non plus ultra."
Thus, I fulfilled my barista role, by making the best cup of coffee ever.
I was, it should be noted, working with great coffee to begin with: Counter Culture's Kilenso Mokonisa. Most of CC's coffees are great, but this one is the kind of coffee that makes even the untutored sit up and take notice. It is a "natural sundried coffee," which means that the fruity part of the coffee (the cherry) is left intact (surrounding the bean) while the coffee is dried in the sun for a period of a few weeks to a few months. This process allows the natural fruit flavors of the coffee cherry to leach into the coffee bean, producing a flavor like the artificially-flavored coffees (blueberry, raspberry, etc.) found in so many coffeeshops, yet far more complex and subtle.
All that to say that he was more likely to notice this coffee than any other coffee, that the pump had been primed by his awareness of pour-over as a method endorsed by the coffee-geek subculture; all that to say that he's a regular, and could have been flattering me.
But I saw his face when he first sipped that cup, and I knew then that I had done exactly what this job is all about. The idea that life can be surprising; that another world is possible; that a cup of coffee can be so much more than a cup of coffee; these are tenets of my faith, and central to my vocation, and to find them expressed so clearly in so mundane a moment at work was inspiring.
Life will go on; the struggles at the bookstore/coffeeshop are not resolved, nor is anything outside of work, but I have done it. I have made the perfect cup of coffee.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Fun Thing
As my comment on the previous post indicates, I have just read David Foster Wallace's well-known essay "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again."
The essay details1 DFW's experience aboard a Caribbean Cruise ship, and what is most interesting is that I, perhaps a few years after DFW made his voyage, made my own voyage aboard the very same vessel: the Celebrity Cruises' m.v. Zenith2.
I was around 12 at the time, and so did not have the same perceptual abilities of DFW vis-a-vis irony, issues of privilege, and the literary resonances of the Celebrity Cruises brochure. I definitely did not have his wit. I probably had a similar amount of arrogance.
Anyway, my memories of the trip are much spottier. I remember being disappointed in the ship's library (probably because it didn't have any books about Star Wars 3). I remember being prepared, with my sister, to clean up in the kids' mixed doubles ping-pong tournament before our aggressive style of play sent five ping pong balls out to sea 4. I remember wearing a black suit with a mustard-colored clip on tie that I thought was the height of practicality because if I were to drip any mustard onto it, it would disappear. Mustard was and is my favorite condiment.
Most of those memories are neutral (except for the ping-pong story, which I treasure). I don't feel the same level of snide hostility that DFW feels towards cruising in general, though I recognize, as he does, the myriad injustices that pervade and sustain the luxury cruise industry.
But my best memory of a cruise ship comes not from being on board one, but of seeing one from afar. It echoes the end of the essay, where Wallace writes: "...seeing, from the perspective of this nighttime sea, the good old Nadir complexly aglow, angelically white, lit up from within, festive, imperial, palatial . . . yes, this: like a palace."
I had that point of view once. During my offshore seminar at the Williams-Mystic program, our brigatine, the SSV Corwith Cramer encountered two luxury cruise ships in the Bay of Maine. Probably not the megaships that cruise the Caribbean, but nonetheless answering to DFW's description.
My watch was on deck duty that night, and I forget who was at the helm, but I was standing bow watch. Bow watch was my favorite duty on the Cramer, especially at night. The work entailed tethering one's safety harness to one of the forward stays and peering forward into the darkness, untethering and walking aft every hour, or to report navigational lights or other oddities. So it was that, on the lookout for a small green light, flashing every 3 seconds, I spotted, far out on the horizon, one, quickly resolving into two, yellow lights. I untethered and walked aft, reporting to the helm and to our watch officer, both of whom seemed very unconcerned. I returned forward, and over the course of the next three hours, saw the lights become clusters of lights, then lighted ships, then, just as we were about to be relieved of the deck, two cruise ships docked side by side. Cabin lights, lights atop their false stacks, a glow that, from a few nautical miles out, appeared to be strings of Christmas lights strung up on their decks, all glowing into the darkness, all of this doubled, as the ships seemed close enough to be passing drinks back and forth. See DFW's description, excerpted above, and the full text, at the end of "A Supposedly Fun... etc." for a poetic description.
I remember that clearly, leaning with my leg on the boom, tethered to the forward stay, glancing back over the Cramer, dark, except for her port and starboard, green and red lights, and shivering, thinking of all those people, ostensibly aboard a ship. It is only in regard to this that I join DFW in his snide hostility towards luxury cruises, and wish to say this to cruisers, and even to DFW's ghost himself: disabuse yourself of the notion that you are on a ship. Find a real ship, one that does not seek, via stabilizers and thrusters, to divorce herself from the motion of the sea. Get out of sight of land, out of sight of floating protuberances big enough to be land, then say that you have been on a ship.
- - -
1 And I mean details; in my paperback edition, it runs just under 100 pages and divided into 13 chapters 13-14 chapters, the discrepancy deriving from a 30-page, hour-by-hour catalog of one day's events, which could comprise a significant part of chapter 13, or be considered its own chapter.
2 DFW consistently refers to the ship as the Nadir, which, until I just now looked up the more technical, astronomical definition of Nadir, I did not find particularly funny.
3 The film franchise, not the missile defense program.
4 We made it to the semifinals, and had a decent chance at glory before the kids' program staff decided to cut their losses and not give out any more balls.
 |
| m.v. Zenith |
I was around 12 at the time, and so did not have the same perceptual abilities of DFW vis-a-vis irony, issues of privilege, and the literary resonances of the Celebrity Cruises brochure. I definitely did not have his wit. I probably had a similar amount of arrogance.
Anyway, my memories of the trip are much spottier. I remember being disappointed in the ship's library (probably because it didn't have any books about Star Wars 3). I remember being prepared, with my sister, to clean up in the kids' mixed doubles ping-pong tournament before our aggressive style of play sent five ping pong balls out to sea 4. I remember wearing a black suit with a mustard-colored clip on tie that I thought was the height of practicality because if I were to drip any mustard onto it, it would disappear. Mustard was and is my favorite condiment.
Most of those memories are neutral (except for the ping-pong story, which I treasure). I don't feel the same level of snide hostility that DFW feels towards cruising in general, though I recognize, as he does, the myriad injustices that pervade and sustain the luxury cruise industry.
But my best memory of a cruise ship comes not from being on board one, but of seeing one from afar. It echoes the end of the essay, where Wallace writes: "...seeing, from the perspective of this nighttime sea, the good old Nadir complexly aglow, angelically white, lit up from within, festive, imperial, palatial . . . yes, this: like a palace."
 |
| SSV Corwith Cramer |
My watch was on deck duty that night, and I forget who was at the helm, but I was standing bow watch. Bow watch was my favorite duty on the Cramer, especially at night. The work entailed tethering one's safety harness to one of the forward stays and peering forward into the darkness, untethering and walking aft every hour, or to report navigational lights or other oddities. So it was that, on the lookout for a small green light, flashing every 3 seconds, I spotted, far out on the horizon, one, quickly resolving into two, yellow lights. I untethered and walked aft, reporting to the helm and to our watch officer, both of whom seemed very unconcerned. I returned forward, and over the course of the next three hours, saw the lights become clusters of lights, then lighted ships, then, just as we were about to be relieved of the deck, two cruise ships docked side by side. Cabin lights, lights atop their false stacks, a glow that, from a few nautical miles out, appeared to be strings of Christmas lights strung up on their decks, all glowing into the darkness, all of this doubled, as the ships seemed close enough to be passing drinks back and forth. See DFW's description, excerpted above, and the full text, at the end of "A Supposedly Fun... etc." for a poetic description.
I remember that clearly, leaning with my leg on the boom, tethered to the forward stay, glancing back over the Cramer, dark, except for her port and starboard, green and red lights, and shivering, thinking of all those people, ostensibly aboard a ship. It is only in regard to this that I join DFW in his snide hostility towards luxury cruises, and wish to say this to cruisers, and even to DFW's ghost himself: disabuse yourself of the notion that you are on a ship. Find a real ship, one that does not seek, via stabilizers and thrusters, to divorce herself from the motion of the sea. Get out of sight of land, out of sight of floating protuberances big enough to be land, then say that you have been on a ship.
- - -
1 And I mean details; in my paperback edition, it runs just under 100 pages and divided into 13 chapters 13-14 chapters, the discrepancy deriving from a 30-page, hour-by-hour catalog of one day's events, which could comprise a significant part of chapter 13, or be considered its own chapter.
2 DFW consistently refers to the ship as the Nadir, which, until I just now looked up the more technical, astronomical definition of Nadir, I did not find particularly funny.
3 The film franchise, not the missile defense program.
4 We made it to the semifinals, and had a decent chance at glory before the kids' program staff decided to cut their losses and not give out any more balls.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Things That Happened Today
I have (yet again) decided that it is perhaps my path in life to be A Writer. Of course, the first problem is that I also want to be other things (a barista; a musician; a traveler) and the second is that writing (along with all these other pursuits) often involves more doing than being. And doing takes time.
Today, for instance, I spent a good hour playing my banjo, because I have an upcoming gig, and I want to be A Musician, and to be A Musician one needs gigs. But I outpace myself; before writing about my experiences today (an important writerly discipline) I must explain myself 1. I am returning to a discipline of writing 500 words every day. I practiced this discipline once for a sustained period during college. I believe it was six months. I believe that during these six months I was a better writer, though I cannot recall if it ever got me any writing gigs, and it certainly did not advance my writerly career to the point where I am writing anything at all these days really.
So I return to the exercise, first begun because 1) E.B. White was a great essayist and I wanted to write like him, and 2) Ray Bradbury said that he wrote 1,000 words every day of his life, and while I didn't (and don't) want to write like him, I admired (and admire) his resolve and his output 2.
But why do exercises at all? After all, if we extend the word "exercise" to another context, most people successfully walk from place to place without ever engaging in anything that they might call exercise 3. Baby Havah, for instance, can practically walk, yet she cannot conceive of a semantic difference between exercise activity and transportational activity. She has never exercised, yet she has (almost) achieved the practical end towards which the exercise is directed. This sort of extension is, of course, linguistically and metaphorically ungrounded, so I will move on to the original point of the exercise: Writing About my Experiences Today. Baby Havah was part of my experience a few days ago, so do not expect to see her as the page rolls on. Now, the ostensible focus of this piece:
THINGS THAT HAPPENED TODAY:
These are the things, among others, that I did today.
The exercise is grounded in that important writerly assumption that writing is borne out of experience. This may or may not be true; I was recently reading a book by Northrop Frye, which suggested that writing is borne out of societal convention, not experience. My reading of that was, of course, something I experienced 4; I finished that book days ago, which is why its reading is not included on the list above.
The exercise is also grounded in the idea that an essay has a reason to be; that is, that it is not merely an unconnected string of 500 words (probably more, at this point), but that is has some sort of Central Idea; that it has, in the words of the high school English class, A Thesis (Statement) 5. Not that every day's 500 words have some sort of Deep Meaning (and not that every day's will be posted here), but that perhaps, maybe once a week, maybe once a month, the aspiring Writer can turn his daily experiences into something that somebody might, for some reason, be willing to read.
The real reason that I hope to continue in this exercise is not technical. It is not about developing my Voice As A Writer or because I hope to publish one whole year's worth of recollections these in a little book (182,500 Words, I call it in my imagination) 6. I re-begin this discipline because it entails a valorization of the mundane things of daily life. It says to the fallen doorknob, to the homemade root beer and the vegetarian soup, "I care about you, enough to write about you." 7
- - -
1 Sorry for all the run-ons and my skeptically disengaged tone. I've been reading a particular, well-known author and essayist recently a, and undertaken this exercise as a sort of stylistic pastiche.
a Guess which one
2 Part of why I stopped trying to write was that I felt that I could not write without worrying what people would think of my writing once I was a Great Writer, and while I have since concluded that such thinking is unhelpful and vain, if anyone in any bio ever written of me lists my influences as E.B. White and Ray Bradbury, I will personally club her or him to death with hardcover printings of those authors' works, purchased online, from a bargain bookseller, for that express purpose.
3 Except for that very place-to-place walking, which, especially if they are hip, fitness conscious people too lazy to get to the gym or to walk for purposes other than transportation are very willing to point out as exercise.
4 Though Frye would perhaps argue that regardless of the individual reader's experience of reading the text, the text acts, as evidenced by the fact that it can act on multiple readers who may be having multifarious experiences while reading it.
5 That same thesis statement to be accompanied by, according to Mrs. Zehner, my 10th grade English teacher, five and only five paragraphs of supporting and concluding material. This arbitrariness always bothered me, yet here I am engaging in a exercise with a similarly arbitrary (and numerically consonant) constraint.
6 "Greg Albright's work was influenced by popular writers such as Ray Bradbury and E.B. --- AAAGGGH!!!" the author bio will read.
7 Of course, tonight's writing was not really about those things at all. It was about style, about reassuring myself that this return to the writing game is possible, that I've still got it, a fact of which I cannot assure myself. It's a pastiche of David Foster Wallace, by the way.
Today, for instance, I spent a good hour playing my banjo, because I have an upcoming gig, and I want to be A Musician, and to be A Musician one needs gigs. But I outpace myself; before writing about my experiences today (an important writerly discipline) I must explain myself 1. I am returning to a discipline of writing 500 words every day. I practiced this discipline once for a sustained period during college. I believe it was six months. I believe that during these six months I was a better writer, though I cannot recall if it ever got me any writing gigs, and it certainly did not advance my writerly career to the point where I am writing anything at all these days really.
So I return to the exercise, first begun because 1) E.B. White was a great essayist and I wanted to write like him, and 2) Ray Bradbury said that he wrote 1,000 words every day of his life, and while I didn't (and don't) want to write like him, I admired (and admire) his resolve and his output 2.
But why do exercises at all? After all, if we extend the word "exercise" to another context, most people successfully walk from place to place without ever engaging in anything that they might call exercise 3. Baby Havah, for instance, can practically walk, yet she cannot conceive of a semantic difference between exercise activity and transportational activity. She has never exercised, yet she has (almost) achieved the practical end towards which the exercise is directed. This sort of extension is, of course, linguistically and metaphorically ungrounded, so I will move on to the original point of the exercise: Writing About my Experiences Today. Baby Havah was part of my experience a few days ago, so do not expect to see her as the page rolls on. Now, the ostensible focus of this piece:
THINGS THAT HAPPENED TODAY:
- My doorknob fell off, stranding me outside during my dinner break, forcing me to, using my pocketknife, unscrew my front window and break into my own apartment. I was then unable to properly reattach the front window, so my apartment is currently very vulnerable to intruders.
- I discussed the paradox of choice with a man with an English accent who was delighted to be discussing the paradox of choice as he was being overwhelmed by the paralyzing selection of teas.
- I cooked my friend a vegetarian lunch.
- I tasted homemade Amish rootbeer.
- I decided, while sitting on the toilet, to starting writing 500 words a day. I made this resolution twice, both times while on the toilet.
- I played the banjo.
These are the things, among others, that I did today.
The exercise is grounded in that important writerly assumption that writing is borne out of experience. This may or may not be true; I was recently reading a book by Northrop Frye, which suggested that writing is borne out of societal convention, not experience. My reading of that was, of course, something I experienced 4; I finished that book days ago, which is why its reading is not included on the list above.
The exercise is also grounded in the idea that an essay has a reason to be; that is, that it is not merely an unconnected string of 500 words (probably more, at this point), but that is has some sort of Central Idea; that it has, in the words of the high school English class, A Thesis (Statement) 5. Not that every day's 500 words have some sort of Deep Meaning (and not that every day's will be posted here), but that perhaps, maybe once a week, maybe once a month, the aspiring Writer can turn his daily experiences into something that somebody might, for some reason, be willing to read.
The real reason that I hope to continue in this exercise is not technical. It is not about developing my Voice As A Writer or because I hope to publish one whole year's worth of recollections these in a little book (182,500 Words, I call it in my imagination) 6. I re-begin this discipline because it entails a valorization of the mundane things of daily life. It says to the fallen doorknob, to the homemade root beer and the vegetarian soup, "I care about you, enough to write about you." 7
- - -
1 Sorry for all the run-ons and my skeptically disengaged tone. I've been reading a particular, well-known author and essayist recently a, and undertaken this exercise as a sort of stylistic pastiche.
a Guess which one
2 Part of why I stopped trying to write was that I felt that I could not write without worrying what people would think of my writing once I was a Great Writer, and while I have since concluded that such thinking is unhelpful and vain, if anyone in any bio ever written of me lists my influences as E.B. White and Ray Bradbury, I will personally club her or him to death with hardcover printings of those authors' works, purchased online, from a bargain bookseller, for that express purpose.
3 Except for that very place-to-place walking, which, especially if they are hip, fitness conscious people too lazy to get to the gym or to walk for purposes other than transportation are very willing to point out as exercise.
4 Though Frye would perhaps argue that regardless of the individual reader's experience of reading the text, the text acts, as evidenced by the fact that it can act on multiple readers who may be having multifarious experiences while reading it.
5 That same thesis statement to be accompanied by, according to Mrs. Zehner, my 10th grade English teacher, five and only five paragraphs of supporting and concluding material. This arbitrariness always bothered me, yet here I am engaging in a exercise with a similarly arbitrary (and numerically consonant) constraint.
6 "Greg Albright's work was influenced by popular writers such as Ray Bradbury and E.B. --- AAAGGGH!!!" the author bio will read.
7 Of course, tonight's writing was not really about those things at all. It was about style, about reassuring myself that this return to the writing game is possible, that I've still got it, a fact of which I cannot assure myself. It's a pastiche of David Foster Wallace, by the way.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Harrisburg
I recently moved into the apartment that Heather and I will be sharing after the wedding. It is a two bedroom, a few blocks from where I used to live, and even closer to my favorite parts of midtown.
A few discussion questions follow:
1) Internet.
Should we (Heather and I) get it in our apartment? At my last place, there was a strong, unprotected connection nearby. At the new place, no such luck. So should we spring for the web? Would this increase or decrease general togetherness? Is it worth the dough? Thoughts from any of y'all would be appreciated.
2) Beer.
There are two bars (both owned by the same establishment) relatively close to my neighborhood boasting 50+ beers on tap. Why did it take me so long to find this out? Which beer should I try next (see their full list here)?
3) Fourth.
As someone belonging to one of the traditional peace churches, I always feel conflicted come Fourth of July. I love barbeques and fireworks, but I do not want to be complicit in rampant nationalism and the myth of redemptive violence. What creative things can I bring/wear/do to creatively subvert the fourth?
A few discussion questions follow:
1) Internet.
Should we (Heather and I) get it in our apartment? At my last place, there was a strong, unprotected connection nearby. At the new place, no such luck. So should we spring for the web? Would this increase or decrease general togetherness? Is it worth the dough? Thoughts from any of y'all would be appreciated.
2) Beer.
There are two bars (both owned by the same establishment) relatively close to my neighborhood boasting 50+ beers on tap. Why did it take me so long to find this out? Which beer should I try next (see their full list here)?
3) Fourth.
As someone belonging to one of the traditional peace churches, I always feel conflicted come Fourth of July. I love barbeques and fireworks, but I do not want to be complicit in rampant nationalism and the myth of redemptive violence. What creative things can I bring/wear/do to creatively subvert the fourth?
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