The clementines are here. My preference to fresh fruit has been a relatively recent phenomenon. It began with a few apples here, a handful of oranges there. Soon enough I was delicately handling kiwi, discussing the relative merits of johnagolds, and generally craving tangelos.
Looking back this all seems to be rather pedestrian. Though the produce was always around, it wasn't until my time in France that I begun to really see the merits of fruits outside the flowering trinity of apples, bananas, and oranges. My idea of branching out had been buying a handful of kiwi or a carton of blackberries to supplement my pulsing desire for summer strawberries.
Litchis opened my eyes. The second night I was in Paris, a bowl was set out and filled to the brim with brittle, scaly little pale ovals. I was honestly surprised to find that these oddities were commonplace. Though I was apprehensive, those feelings dissipated after I peeled the outer shell and plucked the translucently pinkish fruit into my mouth. At the center of the fruit is an inedible seed. Both the appearance of the fruit as well as that inner seed reminded me of a peach, though the litchi was much sweeter and less dense than a peach. Before the evening ended I had consumed at least a dozen or more. I was officially a fan of litchis.
Though they were my gateway, litchis would not remain my fruit of choice while abroad. That station was won by the mango. My revelatory experience with the mango came early in my travels as well. Though I do not recall the exact circumstances of the evening, I believe I was walking in the Marais with my girlfriend and her friend. It was well after 10PM when we stepped into a Japanese restaurant for something to eat. Because of the late hour I was not interested in eating much more than a few pieces of sushi while the girls had full meals. For dessert Morgane ordered fresh mango (I must admit that I found humor in this. Beyond the fact that one would actually choose to have fruit for dessert, why on earth would one expect there to be fresh mango of all things? Evidently most Asian restaurants there serve mango for dessert).
When I first bit into the cubed fruit my derisiveness dissipated. I've been lucky enough to eat quite a few mangoes since that night in the Marais but none could reach the perfection of that first mango. For some reason the produce across the ocean seemed so much more fresh, it seemed to enliven my mouth. Now, every watery out of season clementine, each mealy mango just makes me shake my head in disgust and wish for the produce at the fruit stand on Avenue Pasteur in Courbevoie.
Perhaps it is unfair to constantly compare the fruit of my present to that of my past. Though these comparisons never live up to the imagined past, it seems ingrained in human nature to examine their correlation. With fruits or otherwise, we always catch ourselves doubting our present.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Taking Hold of the Scene
I must admit that I have been struggling to write this particular post for quite some time. This has been a result of circumstance as much as anything else. Life has seemed to speed up a bit over the past weeks. Since I am fond of ease and leisure this "speed" would seem to be something I might bemoan. However, it has been largely a result of positive life events occurring rather than tedious responsibility.
As I've mentioned before, I am certainly cognizant of my tastes. I find pleasure in the simplicity and (perceived) purity of an older generation of musicians. I feel as if I'm more critical of the "moderns" than I am older artists. Perhaps it's easier for me to excuse the blemishes of a different era.
There are some who are lucky enough to work in an environment or industry that keeps them abreast of the changing music scene. But for most, myself included, the task of staying current is impossible--between the cost of legally purchasing new music, to the amount of new material out there, it's like a second job. As a result the number of modern artists I consider integral to my existence pales in comparison to those of an older generation.
In reality, it is no small wonder to connect to a new band. This was certainly my own experience with Okkervil River. Though I rarely listened to them, Okkervil River had been on my radar for quite some time. This wasn't out of distaste but out of negligence. They were given a short and half-interested initial listen and largely forgotten. At some point in the past two years they were granted more attention.
Since I love words--their interaction, how they sound, their subtleties--it was the intricate lyrics of front man Will Sheff that first began to attract me. Songs like "Listening to Otis Redding at Home During Christmas" and "A Stone" contained not only a well of emotion but a poignancy rarely accomplished in any medium smaller than the modern novel. Out of that, the majesty and grandeur of songs like "The War Criminal Rises and Speaks" and "Our Life" hit me in a new way. Further and further the flames of my fan-hood spread as I saw the arc of their body of work--the flashes of genius that were coalesced into their two most recent records.
Of course writing about this is a somewhat futile exercise. Those who enjoy Okkervil River already do so in their own private way. Each experience of music is unique to oneself. It might pique the interest of one who hadn't yet been privy to the joys of the band. But, until the body of work is consumed, my words exist only as an empty approximation of my feelings.
As I've mentioned before, I am certainly cognizant of my tastes. I find pleasure in the simplicity and (perceived) purity of an older generation of musicians. I feel as if I'm more critical of the "moderns" than I am older artists. Perhaps it's easier for me to excuse the blemishes of a different era.
There are some who are lucky enough to work in an environment or industry that keeps them abreast of the changing music scene. But for most, myself included, the task of staying current is impossible--between the cost of legally purchasing new music, to the amount of new material out there, it's like a second job. As a result the number of modern artists I consider integral to my existence pales in comparison to those of an older generation.
In reality, it is no small wonder to connect to a new band. This was certainly my own experience with Okkervil River. Though I rarely listened to them, Okkervil River had been on my radar for quite some time. This wasn't out of distaste but out of negligence. They were given a short and half-interested initial listen and largely forgotten. At some point in the past two years they were granted more attention.
Since I love words--their interaction, how they sound, their subtleties--it was the intricate lyrics of front man Will Sheff that first began to attract me. Songs like "Listening to Otis Redding at Home During Christmas" and "A Stone" contained not only a well of emotion but a poignancy rarely accomplished in any medium smaller than the modern novel. Out of that, the majesty and grandeur of songs like "The War Criminal Rises and Speaks" and "Our Life" hit me in a new way. Further and further the flames of my fan-hood spread as I saw the arc of their body of work--the flashes of genius that were coalesced into their two most recent records.
Of course writing about this is a somewhat futile exercise. Those who enjoy Okkervil River already do so in their own private way. Each experience of music is unique to oneself. It might pique the interest of one who hadn't yet been privy to the joys of the band. But, until the body of work is consumed, my words exist only as an empty approximation of my feelings.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
The Curse of Memory
A month ago I had the realization that September was ending. Now I've had that same realization about October. I suppose my wonder at the passing of time either belies a touch of inner boredom or the creeping effects of age.
"Now the days go by so fast"
The passing of time is a subject laden with trite expressions and worn out sentiments, neither of which truly obtain an exact perspective on the subject. Our collective inability to truly pierce the heart of the matter doesn't prohibit us in any way, in fact it seems to cause more attempts--each trying to get their horseshoe closer to the stake.
An argument can be made that photographs (and recording technology in general) have invariably weakened our memories; however, I'm not sure where I would be without them. It is somewhat unbearable to think that there are occurrences in our life whose only chance of "survival" relies on our own mental capacities. As unreliable as we are as humans, it helps to have an aid. I am, therefore, quite thankful to have so many photographs from all stages of my life (these usually bring back a rush of emotions and memories when I see them).
Despite this I have been known to scoff at certain types of picture takers, especially those who replace the experience by way of lens. This tendency is most notable in tourists (the best example being those who take pictures of pictures, i.e. hanging works of art). I am overly self-conscious and as a result I unfortunately tend to behave the opposite. Because of this I often neglect to take pictures of certain things or have my own picture taken by others. It is regrettable ridiculousness on my part.
"I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself to hold on to these moments as they pass"
My own goal in life is to simply remember well. It seems at times to be an impossible task. Each passing day grants new experiences that serve to block out the more dated memories. As these new memories crowd the edges of your mind, the older ones meld together and form a jumbled mess. Hazy uncertainty reigns in place of clarity. Despite the hazy uncertainty of memory, the over all feeling is usually retained. These are most often summarized in basic emotions--a smile, an exclamation of discord, or even a sense of general ambivalence. And then there are also those exceptional memories that are so ingrained, so real despite the passing of time, they remain tangible. It is unfortunate but those seem to be the exception and not the rule.
Often we are filled with longing to relive moments, to reconnect with people or places. This ability to remember certain things in the face of the present is the curse of memory. As such it seems to me that the oddity of our existence is in fact the present. Invariably, like the above quote attests, we lament our inability to derive the appropriate sense of fulfillment out of the moments we live. In a sense we are not truly living our life but living the memories to come and are thus forced to derive most our joy retroactively.
"Now the days go by so fast"
The passing of time is a subject laden with trite expressions and worn out sentiments, neither of which truly obtain an exact perspective on the subject. Our collective inability to truly pierce the heart of the matter doesn't prohibit us in any way, in fact it seems to cause more attempts--each trying to get their horseshoe closer to the stake.
An argument can be made that photographs (and recording technology in general) have invariably weakened our memories; however, I'm not sure where I would be without them. It is somewhat unbearable to think that there are occurrences in our life whose only chance of "survival" relies on our own mental capacities. As unreliable as we are as humans, it helps to have an aid. I am, therefore, quite thankful to have so many photographs from all stages of my life (these usually bring back a rush of emotions and memories when I see them).
Despite this I have been known to scoff at certain types of picture takers, especially those who replace the experience by way of lens. This tendency is most notable in tourists (the best example being those who take pictures of pictures, i.e. hanging works of art). I am overly self-conscious and as a result I unfortunately tend to behave the opposite. Because of this I often neglect to take pictures of certain things or have my own picture taken by others. It is regrettable ridiculousness on my part.
"I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself to hold on to these moments as they pass"
My own goal in life is to simply remember well. It seems at times to be an impossible task. Each passing day grants new experiences that serve to block out the more dated memories. As these new memories crowd the edges of your mind, the older ones meld together and form a jumbled mess. Hazy uncertainty reigns in place of clarity. Despite the hazy uncertainty of memory, the over all feeling is usually retained. These are most often summarized in basic emotions--a smile, an exclamation of discord, or even a sense of general ambivalence. And then there are also those exceptional memories that are so ingrained, so real despite the passing of time, they remain tangible. It is unfortunate but those seem to be the exception and not the rule.
Often we are filled with longing to relive moments, to reconnect with people or places. This ability to remember certain things in the face of the present is the curse of memory. As such it seems to me that the oddity of our existence is in fact the present. Invariably, like the above quote attests, we lament our inability to derive the appropriate sense of fulfillment out of the moments we live. In a sense we are not truly living our life but living the memories to come and are thus forced to derive most our joy retroactively.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Under My Thumb
My presence here in Arkansas seems an oddity to many. Though it has been explored countless times already in this medium, I always seem to find myself returning to it. I would venture to guess that it stems from the confusion of life. It's natural to reach out for something known in times of unknown, like a favorite pub or a particular bench in the park. Your life isn't exactly centered around it but you feel centered while you're there.
When I left France I jumped from what had become home back to what was once home. It is perhaps confusing and a bit complicated to phrase it thus but I felt adrift. As such I did derive a sense of comfort out of my familiar surroundings. After Clint's death and my separation from M. it was perhaps the best thing for me. Admittedly though there seemed to be an undercurrent of doubt, one that perhaps mentally tagged on "for now" to my response when asked if I was "back." I'm not sure why, but even after being off in the world, I seemed to associate a slight sense of failure with being back home. It is absurd, I know.
The reaction to my "return" depends largely on the person I might be talking to. There seems to be a duality of opinion here, one that is undoubtedly the case in many towns across America. There are those that see the place as the center of something larger, a destination of perfection. Lying opposite to this are those that only know the place by a negative moniker that keeps the "Fort" but replaces the "Smith" with something my sister referred to as the "S word" when we were younger. Both camps express disbelief at my return. For the former my return is natural but they can't believe that I took so long to come to my senses.
While many see the town as a pleasant comfort, the other half seems to view the town as a mother's thumb--something that binds and chafes, something to escape. With this set there is usually a touch of envy at my fortune, envy that I had gotten out. Theirs is an incredulous disbelief that I would even contemplate a return.
So here I am, ironically stuck between the two halves. Squarely under that comfortingly oppressive thumb, I am once again seeking answers to questions that can't really be answered, only lived.
When I left France I jumped from what had become home back to what was once home. It is perhaps confusing and a bit complicated to phrase it thus but I felt adrift. As such I did derive a sense of comfort out of my familiar surroundings. After Clint's death and my separation from M. it was perhaps the best thing for me. Admittedly though there seemed to be an undercurrent of doubt, one that perhaps mentally tagged on "for now" to my response when asked if I was "back." I'm not sure why, but even after being off in the world, I seemed to associate a slight sense of failure with being back home. It is absurd, I know.
The reaction to my "return" depends largely on the person I might be talking to. There seems to be a duality of opinion here, one that is undoubtedly the case in many towns across America. There are those that see the place as the center of something larger, a destination of perfection. Lying opposite to this are those that only know the place by a negative moniker that keeps the "Fort" but replaces the "Smith" with something my sister referred to as the "S word" when we were younger. Both camps express disbelief at my return. For the former my return is natural but they can't believe that I took so long to come to my senses.
While many see the town as a pleasant comfort, the other half seems to view the town as a mother's thumb--something that binds and chafes, something to escape. With this set there is usually a touch of envy at my fortune, envy that I had gotten out. Theirs is an incredulous disbelief that I would even contemplate a return.
So here I am, ironically stuck between the two halves. Squarely under that comfortingly oppressive thumb, I am once again seeking answers to questions that can't really be answered, only lived.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The Tragedy of Circumstance
Each time I begin a relationship it always seems there will never be an end. Despite all contrary evidence that I've experienced, I always get lost in the beauty of love and coupling in its early stages.
It's only later that the cracks begin to show--your defense of certain glaring incompatibilities weakens, you cease to ignore certain characteristics. The time frame for this negative evolution always depends on those involved (I seem to be quite adept at ignoring reality in a multitude of situations). Given the nature of relationships it would be easy for one to think that the innocence and exciting unknowns of new relationships were the peak. It would be easy to think that it simply doesn't get much better. But it is only after those early bursts of emotion have passed that the nature of a love is revealed and allowed room to truly grow.
Thus the tragedy isn't that a relationship fails to grow but that it isn't allowed the room to grow. Whether it was Romeo or Tristan, Beatrice or Ilsa--without the right circumstances love is circumvented. It can never truly take flight, wings can never be completely formed.
So it is once again that circumstance thwarts a short but brilliant flame in my life. In the billowing remnants of that flame I am left only with memories of moments shared and a longing to replace the emptiness...I've never been good at being alone.
It's only later that the cracks begin to show--your defense of certain glaring incompatibilities weakens, you cease to ignore certain characteristics. The time frame for this negative evolution always depends on those involved (I seem to be quite adept at ignoring reality in a multitude of situations). Given the nature of relationships it would be easy for one to think that the innocence and exciting unknowns of new relationships were the peak. It would be easy to think that it simply doesn't get much better. But it is only after those early bursts of emotion have passed that the nature of a love is revealed and allowed room to truly grow.
Thus the tragedy isn't that a relationship fails to grow but that it isn't allowed the room to grow. Whether it was Romeo or Tristan, Beatrice or Ilsa--without the right circumstances love is circumvented. It can never truly take flight, wings can never be completely formed.
So it is once again that circumstance thwarts a short but brilliant flame in my life. In the billowing remnants of that flame I am left only with memories of moments shared and a longing to replace the emptiness...I've never been good at being alone.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The North Side of Despair
Another year has come and gone for the boys in Cubbie blue. It has proved hard to admit. Now that I'm almost a full week removed from their third loss to the Dodgers I've accepted the fact that it is over, really and truly over.
This day and age doesn't really seem as suited for baseball as it is other sports. Thus there are countless people 35 and under who just don't "get" baseball. Most of my friends are more in tune with the NBA and the NFL than they are the dynamics of the MLB. There are too many games, not enough action, any number of excuses are spit out as reasons behind their dislike of the game.
Most of these reasons I can live with. Everyone has different tastes. I do, however, find it ironic when friends who "love" soccer list game pace or "lack of action" as a reason for their inability to derive pleasure from watching baseball. It escapes me how one can truly appreciate the tactical vagaries of soccer but not baseball. Obviously in many circles it's "hip" for one to "love" soccer but I think it's as much about personality as it is the changing face of the world.
"It's no wonder some people find the game dull, especially in an age of Sports Center and instant gratification. A lot of baseball's appeal is in the Scheherazadian nature of the game--the narrative develops slowly. Clock drive football compresses and distills, while baseball invites discursive rumination. It's an archaic style that attracts a different fan." -Phillip Martin, 9-21-08 Arkansas Democrat-Gazette
Since that compression is missing from baseball there is more buildup. Once that aspiration is deflated at season's end, it stings. As a Cubs fan you become somewhat immune to the many pitfalls and let downs within a season. You're calloused and accustomed to that sting of defeat. It's when you ease your inner guard and allow the light of hope to burn within you that you leave yourself vulnerable as a Cubs fan. My own light clicked on early this year and continued to flicker the entire season. Even after the Cubs dropped the first two in Chicago, deep inside me a miraculous curse breaking ember was smoldering.
It wasn't to be. Once again, in a miraculous fashion, the season ended for the Cubs. It's easy to lament one's circumstances but excoriating one's fate is of no use. Instead we dry our eyes and cast our gaze ahead to next year--to find new hope in a new spring. We, as Cub fans, live in the quiet hopes of tomorrow and the joyous possibilities it holds.
This day and age doesn't really seem as suited for baseball as it is other sports. Thus there are countless people 35 and under who just don't "get" baseball. Most of my friends are more in tune with the NBA and the NFL than they are the dynamics of the MLB. There are too many games, not enough action, any number of excuses are spit out as reasons behind their dislike of the game.
Most of these reasons I can live with. Everyone has different tastes. I do, however, find it ironic when friends who "love" soccer list game pace or "lack of action" as a reason for their inability to derive pleasure from watching baseball. It escapes me how one can truly appreciate the tactical vagaries of soccer but not baseball. Obviously in many circles it's "hip" for one to "love" soccer but I think it's as much about personality as it is the changing face of the world.
"It's no wonder some people find the game dull, especially in an age of Sports Center and instant gratification. A lot of baseball's appeal is in the Scheherazadian nature of the game--the narrative develops slowly. Clock drive football compresses and distills, while baseball invites discursive rumination. It's an archaic style that attracts a different fan." -Phillip Martin, 9-21-08 Arkansas Democrat-Gazette
Since that compression is missing from baseball there is more buildup. Once that aspiration is deflated at season's end, it stings. As a Cubs fan you become somewhat immune to the many pitfalls and let downs within a season. You're calloused and accustomed to that sting of defeat. It's when you ease your inner guard and allow the light of hope to burn within you that you leave yourself vulnerable as a Cubs fan. My own light clicked on early this year and continued to flicker the entire season. Even after the Cubs dropped the first two in Chicago, deep inside me a miraculous curse breaking ember was smoldering.
It wasn't to be. Once again, in a miraculous fashion, the season ended for the Cubs. It's easy to lament one's circumstances but excoriating one's fate is of no use. Instead we dry our eyes and cast our gaze ahead to next year--to find new hope in a new spring. We, as Cub fans, live in the quiet hopes of tomorrow and the joyous possibilities it holds.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Wishes and Wants
For some reason I've always had a predilection for literature from the early 20th century. Most noticeably this preference is for works that take place in the interwar years from 1920-1940. I'm not so sure I can truly put my finger on the reason why. It seems that there is hardly ever a direct causal relationship between reason and preference. There are vaguely descriptive reasons I can give--the level of decadence that seemed to pervade life, the manners, the suppressed simplicity of the worldview. I think, in truth, it perversely seems almost idyllic in my mind. An era seemingly caught between modernity and the Victorian era, the exact point of society before we spilled over into the chaos of "modernity."
With my fear of planes I suppose I've always felt as if I was born in the wrong era, that I was more suited for the leisurely travel norms of that time. Perhaps I'm kidding myself to entertain such notions but I've raced through Forster, Maugham, Greene, and Waugh and continually feel drawn to their world.
Naturally it was not without a sense of irony that I realized the other day that, in a way, I've been living in a new manifestation of that time period. Perhaps this realization should have occurred to me already with the gloom and doom of another depression splashed across the news each day (Unfortunately I tend to be tragically oblivious. For as observant as I feel I can be, this streak of blindness can be somewhat surprising).
It can be quite easy to find parallels between historical eras if one sets out to do so. I imagine it's almost as easy as finding behavioral or moral justifications in the bible. Everything is found for those who care to undertake the search. For my own comparison it's easy to picture the fracturing of a societal naivete, a la the WWI, in the events of 9/11, the roaring 20s in the freewheeling banking practices of the early 2000s, and our own recession as the depression. What is left but a war to bookend the period?
Obviously the time periods of these "parallel" events don't mesh. The later events occur compressed--a naivete that took four years to crack was shattered in only a day. As we were drowning in the forgetfulness of prosperity the world continued to move on around us.
My good friend in California, Matt, made a very valid point during our discussion of the dualities between responsibility and happiness. It serves very nicely has an ending point for this particular post. Matt compared the current state of much of the financial sector with that of our peers. I'm taking the liberty to quote him directly (courtesy of the wondrous gmail)--
"A lot of our generation has been blessed with many great opportunities and not often have we seen the possible negative consequences of the risks we have taken. So we keep on taking the risks, keep on pushing it."
If there is a better analogy that describes the majority of young American adults and their personal struggles between "reality" and the easy almost hedonistic lifestyle they had grown accustomed to, I have yet to see it. Matt's assessment of the situation nails the crux of the issue, for our own age or for the 1920s. In both eras we became tangled up in the illusion of prosperity...so fooled by the hopeful smokescreen of flourishing affluence that we lost sight of reality. We are now stuck with the outcome of our own orgulous Ostrich act. Perhaps it's too ominous and perhaps too obvious to close with a warning, but as they say, "be careful what you wish for." Even if it is as absurd a literary lark as wishing to live through the ups and downs of the interwar period.
With my fear of planes I suppose I've always felt as if I was born in the wrong era, that I was more suited for the leisurely travel norms of that time. Perhaps I'm kidding myself to entertain such notions but I've raced through Forster, Maugham, Greene, and Waugh and continually feel drawn to their world.
Naturally it was not without a sense of irony that I realized the other day that, in a way, I've been living in a new manifestation of that time period. Perhaps this realization should have occurred to me already with the gloom and doom of another depression splashed across the news each day (Unfortunately I tend to be tragically oblivious. For as observant as I feel I can be, this streak of blindness can be somewhat surprising).
It can be quite easy to find parallels between historical eras if one sets out to do so. I imagine it's almost as easy as finding behavioral or moral justifications in the bible. Everything is found for those who care to undertake the search. For my own comparison it's easy to picture the fracturing of a societal naivete, a la the WWI, in the events of 9/11, the roaring 20s in the freewheeling banking practices of the early 2000s, and our own recession as the depression. What is left but a war to bookend the period?
Obviously the time periods of these "parallel" events don't mesh. The later events occur compressed--a naivete that took four years to crack was shattered in only a day. As we were drowning in the forgetfulness of prosperity the world continued to move on around us.
My good friend in California, Matt, made a very valid point during our discussion of the dualities between responsibility and happiness. It serves very nicely has an ending point for this particular post. Matt compared the current state of much of the financial sector with that of our peers. I'm taking the liberty to quote him directly (courtesy of the wondrous gmail)--
"A lot of our generation has been blessed with many great opportunities and not often have we seen the possible negative consequences of the risks we have taken. So we keep on taking the risks, keep on pushing it."
If there is a better analogy that describes the majority of young American adults and their personal struggles between "reality" and the easy almost hedonistic lifestyle they had grown accustomed to, I have yet to see it. Matt's assessment of the situation nails the crux of the issue, for our own age or for the 1920s. In both eras we became tangled up in the illusion of prosperity...so fooled by the hopeful smokescreen of flourishing affluence that we lost sight of reality. We are now stuck with the outcome of our own orgulous Ostrich act. Perhaps it's too ominous and perhaps too obvious to close with a warning, but as they say, "be careful what you wish for." Even if it is as absurd a literary lark as wishing to live through the ups and downs of the interwar period.
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