Paddle & Portage day today on the Square; this guy is one of those who did NOT drop the canoe.
7 hours ago
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Friday, July 16, 2004
BEFORE
“A French grad student meets an American boy on a train between Budapest and Vienna.” So goes the description of a movie I saw some 6 or 7 years ago (“Before Sunrise”). My reticence about revealing favorite films on the blog notwithstanding, I do admit to having liked it. One person called it a meandering nothing. Perfect! The characters take part in a sensual little adventure, stimulated more than anything by the ongoing conversation that they have with each other. And chemistry. It is a lovely little film (kind of a culty thing, with a very loyal following).
Today the sequel comes to Madison. I was buying tickets hours in advance. Just in case.
AFTER
In the previous film they set a time and place to meet again. We now find out that one of them doesn’t show. Many years into the future they come across each other again, in Paris, where he is on a book-signing tour. They have only a few hours. How does anyone use such a short circuit of time?
The 9:30 Madison showing (opening night!) is almost completely empty (the film has been well received elsewhere and the movie houses have been full). That kind of cavernous atmosphere makes the movie seem tentative, fragile somehow.
But it is subtle and sweet and she (Julie Delpy) is so splendid looking! The conversation between them is playful, spontaneous, informal and therefore enthralling. The movie is just that – an 80 minute chat through the back streets of Paris. And in this time, the audience understands more of the physical tension between them than if they had had explicit sex before close-up cameras. Wonderful.
“A French grad student meets an American boy on a train between Budapest and Vienna.” So goes the description of a movie I saw some 6 or 7 years ago (“Before Sunrise”). My reticence about revealing favorite films on the blog notwithstanding, I do admit to having liked it. One person called it a meandering nothing. Perfect! The characters take part in a sensual little adventure, stimulated more than anything by the ongoing conversation that they have with each other. And chemistry. It is a lovely little film (kind of a culty thing, with a very loyal following).
Today the sequel comes to Madison. I was buying tickets hours in advance. Just in case.
AFTER
In the previous film they set a time and place to meet again. We now find out that one of them doesn’t show. Many years into the future they come across each other again, in Paris, where he is on a book-signing tour. They have only a few hours. How does anyone use such a short circuit of time?
The 9:30 Madison showing (opening night!) is almost completely empty (the film has been well received elsewhere and the movie houses have been full). That kind of cavernous atmosphere makes the movie seem tentative, fragile somehow.
But it is subtle and sweet and she (Julie Delpy) is so splendid looking! The conversation between them is playful, spontaneous, informal and therefore enthralling. The movie is just that – an 80 minute chat through the back streets of Paris. And in this time, the audience understands more of the physical tension between them than if they had had explicit sex before close-up cameras. Wonderful.
Whomping the yak and beaming the gadget
Looking over Dave Barry’s column today in the IHT (here), I was dismayed that I am gender neutral by his analysis. [Because if you have one count of manhood and one of womanhood, what could you possibly be if not stuck in a gender warp of neutrality?]
Barry makes the familiar point about male/female differences in shopping. He traces male goal-directedness (enter store, zero in on item, purchase, leave store) to prehistoric times where man would draw a piece of meat on the cave wall (a yak perhaps), go out and whomp the yak (“making the purchase”), come home and eat it. I am just like that. I despise malls and am anxious when the first store doesn’t have exactly what I want. I want my yak to be there and waiting for me to whomp it.
But there is his second point – about the manhood of acquiring gadgets that are about as necessary as a spare tire is for a tricyce. Barry describes his experiences with using a fancy new cell phone ineffectively (since men don’t read instruction manuals. Ever.). The goal? To beam an email message to his pal standing two feet away (who attempts then to beam one back).
My history with gadgets is terribly dysfunctional, which, I suppose, places me in the category of a stereotypical woman who prefers to work her dough with her hands and talk to people directly rather than through gadgets. Not only do I avoid gadgets, but when I buy them I don't use them. I acquired a palm thingie back in November. I set it up on my desk in the study just to remind myself how stupid that purchase was. I hereby admit that I never even studied all its special features.
So perhaps when I was getting my hair cut today I should have taken into account my newly established gender identity: half and half. Hmm, maybe I’ll start using more gadgets. Why is it that men have the better set of stereotypes in this equation?
Barry makes the familiar point about male/female differences in shopping. He traces male goal-directedness (enter store, zero in on item, purchase, leave store) to prehistoric times where man would draw a piece of meat on the cave wall (a yak perhaps), go out and whomp the yak (“making the purchase”), come home and eat it. I am just like that. I despise malls and am anxious when the first store doesn’t have exactly what I want. I want my yak to be there and waiting for me to whomp it.
But there is his second point – about the manhood of acquiring gadgets that are about as necessary as a spare tire is for a tricyce. Barry describes his experiences with using a fancy new cell phone ineffectively (since men don’t read instruction manuals. Ever.). The goal? To beam an email message to his pal standing two feet away (who attempts then to beam one back).
My history with gadgets is terribly dysfunctional, which, I suppose, places me in the category of a stereotypical woman who prefers to work her dough with her hands and talk to people directly rather than through gadgets. Not only do I avoid gadgets, but when I buy them I don't use them. I acquired a palm thingie back in November. I set it up on my desk in the study just to remind myself how stupid that purchase was. I hereby admit that I never even studied all its special features.
So perhaps when I was getting my hair cut today I should have taken into account my newly established gender identity: half and half. Hmm, maybe I’ll start using more gadgets. Why is it that men have the better set of stereotypes in this equation?
Squelch rumors before they form
It is absolutely not true that I am having “my hair done” today because a photographer will be following me around the Market tomorrow. I am not vain and I do not care that the sun has made my hair streak with every conceivable shade of brown. Irrelevant. Glossy magazine coverage of my L’Etoile foraging activities does not phase me. I am above and beyond such trivialities. [I was scheduled to have my hair attended to today way before I knew of tomorrow’s Market plans and if you knew how hard it is to get an appointment with my man Jason, you’d understand that last minute requests are, in any event, out of the question.]
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Working late
Although I’ve completed my formal teaching in the Summer Program in American Law (for foreign attorneys), I am not done with the Program in its entirety. For instance, tonight we had a meeting to go over the finer details of the separation of ‘powers.’ It was clear that the issue of gender was uppermost in the minds of men, women, and children. I am still worn from my marathon teaching. I strayed from the crux of the discussion in order to keep company with those who had a strong concern with what food was in the offering.
A snapshot from an evening of hard work:
A snapshot from an evening of hard work:
The crazy lady was right -- sort of.
The other day I described getting lost in the neighborhood just behind Perkins on University Ave. I’m sure everyone thought I’d given myself poetic license when I described the directions given by one seemingly loony resident: “find the tunnel that leads from University Ave. to Old Middleton Road,” she said. Ridiculous? Not at all!
Today I went back to the scene of the near tragedy (dehydration, overheating, foul mood leading to who knows what level of violent behavior) and I found it!
True, one cannot say that it stretches from Old Middleton all the way to University. And, the inside of it is hideous: it has a massive amount of broken glass, as well as a dampness to it, reminding you that you are in an unhealthy environment. Thankfully no one was selling drugs there during my explorations, but I think that’s because I hit the post-lunch sleepy hour.
Today I went back to the scene of the near tragedy (dehydration, overheating, foul mood leading to who knows what level of violent behavior) and I found it!
True, one cannot say that it stretches from Old Middleton all the way to University. And, the inside of it is hideous: it has a massive amount of broken glass, as well as a dampness to it, reminding you that you are in an unhealthy environment. Thankfully no one was selling drugs there during my explorations, but I think that’s because I hit the post-lunch sleepy hour.
A message from a bleak and barren solarium
On days like this, I wish I were living at some future time period (say the year 2036), when we’ll all have had our fill of ‘natural’ and are ready to accept this basic truth: natural can be a nightmare.
I struggle with plants, outside and in, because the insect and beast is mightier than the Nina. Outside, all is ravaged by animals, inside, the sickening white flies are again attacking my passion flower and are greedily eyeing the rest. Since I live in 2004, I have to fight such avarice with concoctions that will eventually make botanists reel with laughter: natural soaps, fox urine, egg whites mixed with cayenne – I mean, come on, do people have success with any of this?
I’m about to walk my sticky plant outdoors, not because it’s dead already, but because I can’t stand to watch the vultures fly off the leaves, leaving sappy residue behind and mocking me and my natural remedies all the while.
My study is losing its greenery: it’s becoming naturally bare, naturally ugly in its purity and wholesomeness. I know, I know, I am protecting the environment. I‘m only saying that if we are about to revert again to synthetics and chemicals, let’s do it NOW, so that I can enjoy again the splendid things nature has to offer and not lose them all to species that Darwin may have scorned and labeled inferior, but I myself find tougher than the wimpy human being (me) who can’t deal with a dumb rabbit or a stupid fly.
After the tempest, a musical evening
It’s hard to explain the Concerts on the Square to a non-Madisonian. The basics are simple enough: a weekly summer outdoor event for which thousands gather; a concert, a bring-your-own-picnic, a spread-blanket-on-the-grass and sit-in-comfy-beach-chair-that’s-no-more-than-six-inches-off-the-ground (that’s a rule) event. There, it’s starting to get complicated. Bullet time!
• You have to know that to get anywhere within viewing distance of the “stage” (really, the SE entrance of the Capitol), you must put your blanket down at 3 p.m. to claim a spot. Not earlier (that’s a rule), not later (others will fill the spaces). The concert starts at 7, but you don’t have to stay with your blanket (and chairs if you’ve brought those as well) because this is Madison and things remain where you leave them.
• If it’s windy, your blanket will flutter away in your absence unless you weigh it down – but you can’t use stones (that’s a rule). Some years ago people (including me; hey, everyone was doing it!) looted stones from around the Capitol to weigh down blankets and after the show they would take their things and leave the stones behind (not guilty on this one) so that it looked like it had hailed boulders that evening.
• You can eat, read books, drink wine or beer, play cards or board games, do pretty much any quiet, low-to-the-ground activity, using the music as an excuse to be there. Listening to the music is an option (about 75% do listen), but not a requirement.
• The rules of concert going go out the door (no pun intended). People applaud after movements, or in fact before movements even finish (ey harriet? The dern thing finished yet? Sounds like it should be done. Clap clap clap).
And so on.
Tonight’s theme was “classical hits.” You would think that this would be boring to the thousands who gather (last week’s polka theme seemed more fitting for the carnival atmosphere), but no: the crowds will swell no matter what and for the most part, people listen.
The sun moves behind the Capitol dome in the course of the first hour and the concert ends in the pallor of early dusk. You stretch your legs, chomp away at your edibles and feel at peace with the evening (or, if you’re like me, you get a tad weepy at the first strains of the Tchaikovsky First Piano Concerto; it’s so beautiful, and it’s been a long day; one can get emotional like that and no one will notice).
looking up from the blanket
napping is also an option
intermission
• You have to know that to get anywhere within viewing distance of the “stage” (really, the SE entrance of the Capitol), you must put your blanket down at 3 p.m. to claim a spot. Not earlier (that’s a rule), not later (others will fill the spaces). The concert starts at 7, but you don’t have to stay with your blanket (and chairs if you’ve brought those as well) because this is Madison and things remain where you leave them.
• If it’s windy, your blanket will flutter away in your absence unless you weigh it down – but you can’t use stones (that’s a rule). Some years ago people (including me; hey, everyone was doing it!) looted stones from around the Capitol to weigh down blankets and after the show they would take their things and leave the stones behind (not guilty on this one) so that it looked like it had hailed boulders that evening.
• You can eat, read books, drink wine or beer, play cards or board games, do pretty much any quiet, low-to-the-ground activity, using the music as an excuse to be there. Listening to the music is an option (about 75% do listen), but not a requirement.
• The rules of concert going go out the door (no pun intended). People applaud after movements, or in fact before movements even finish (ey harriet? The dern thing finished yet? Sounds like it should be done. Clap clap clap).
And so on.
Tonight’s theme was “classical hits.” You would think that this would be boring to the thousands who gather (last week’s polka theme seemed more fitting for the carnival atmosphere), but no: the crowds will swell no matter what and for the most part, people listen.
The sun moves behind the Capitol dome in the course of the first hour and the concert ends in the pallor of early dusk. You stretch your legs, chomp away at your edibles and feel at peace with the evening (or, if you’re like me, you get a tad weepy at the first strains of the Tchaikovsky First Piano Concerto; it’s so beautiful, and it’s been a long day; one can get emotional like that and no one will notice).
looking up from the blanket
napping is also an option
intermission
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Craziness of a sort
A feisty reader and blogger who herself has a record of dropping days upon days from her blogging obligations asks why I have had no posts today. Heavens! This day is one big mudslide into cardiac arrest, it has been that busy.
ALL WORK NO SLEEP
First of all, there was the last lecture to deliver -- three hours on the important civil rights Supreme Court decisions of the century (and which ones would you choose to include here?). Did anyone else notice that Charter crashed access to the Internet between 3:30 and 6:30 a.m.? Was anyone else frantically clicking away waiting for it to come back on so that they could finish last-minute scavenging for updates and information?
WHEN SOMEONE IS WILLING TO WALK WITH ME, I AM THERE!
Second of all, I once again misestimated distances and so what was to be a one hour walk turned into one hour and forty minutes (and the friend I walked with is a speed demon!).
I WAS LURED INTO THE FRANCE-BASTILLE-DAY THING ONCE AGAIN
Thirdly, yes I did blog about not celebrating any holiday of a country where I am not currently residing, but when a friend told me he was making Vichyssoise for dinner today in honor of Bastille Day I got jealous. Of course, not having time to do anything in the kitchen, I limited my celebratory measures to picking up a bottle of the French aperitif, Dubonnet. (Does it matter, do you suppose, that it was really bottled in the US? And why is it that I imagine every clebration of things French should include a wine-based beverage?)
MY MOM'S AT IT AGAIN
Fourthly, I came home and found a thick packet in the mail from my California out-of-the-ordinary mother. Among the items:
one book is autographed -- to compensate for not getting Clinton's signature in his text when he was in Berkeley
an article about a very tall bridge; don't ask -- I don't know why
For the first time in a long time, I wont even read blogs until late tonight. The day's not over yet. I'm keeping the car engine running as I write this. Thank God I haven't time to be tired.
ALL WORK NO SLEEP
First of all, there was the last lecture to deliver -- three hours on the important civil rights Supreme Court decisions of the century (and which ones would you choose to include here?). Did anyone else notice that Charter crashed access to the Internet between 3:30 and 6:30 a.m.? Was anyone else frantically clicking away waiting for it to come back on so that they could finish last-minute scavenging for updates and information?
WHEN SOMEONE IS WILLING TO WALK WITH ME, I AM THERE!
Second of all, I once again misestimated distances and so what was to be a one hour walk turned into one hour and forty minutes (and the friend I walked with is a speed demon!).
I WAS LURED INTO THE FRANCE-BASTILLE-DAY THING ONCE AGAIN
Thirdly, yes I did blog about not celebrating any holiday of a country where I am not currently residing, but when a friend told me he was making Vichyssoise for dinner today in honor of Bastille Day I got jealous. Of course, not having time to do anything in the kitchen, I limited my celebratory measures to picking up a bottle of the French aperitif, Dubonnet. (Does it matter, do you suppose, that it was really bottled in the US? And why is it that I imagine every clebration of things French should include a wine-based beverage?)
MY MOM'S AT IT AGAIN
Fourthly, I came home and found a thick packet in the mail from my California out-of-the-ordinary mother. Among the items:
one book is autographed -- to compensate for not getting Clinton's signature in his text when he was in Berkeley
an article about a very tall bridge; don't ask -- I don't know why
For the first time in a long time, I wont even read blogs until late tonight. The day's not over yet. I'm keeping the car engine running as I write this. Thank God I haven't time to be tired.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Q/A
Q: If you’ve lived in Madison for 25 years and have a pretty reliable sense of direction, is it possible to get lost while walking within a mile or two of where you live?
A: Yes.
Q: Is it possible to ask 6 separate people directions to Old Middleton Road when you're stuck on some godforsaken street called Brody Drive and get 6 separate wrong answers?
A: Yes.
Q: When you finally decide to go back to University Ave and you miraculously see the Perkins American flag just a few feet away, can you still face great obstacles like wire fences and prickly thistle before you can reach it?
A: Yes.
Q: Are there bloggers out there who cannot transfer Mapquest pictures onto their blog without taking a photo of the computer screen?
A: Yes.
Q: Does the red star on the map below indicate the place where the author of this post first got lost?
A: Yes.
the scene of a foul mood resulting from overheating, dehydration and being lost
If you can figure out how to get from the red star to Old Middleton Road, please email me. One woman swore there was a secret tunnel that took you underground right from University Ave to Old Middleton by Knoche's grocery store. If you know of it, I will PAY you if you tell me where it is.
A: Yes.
Q: Is it possible to ask 6 separate people directions to Old Middleton Road when you're stuck on some godforsaken street called Brody Drive and get 6 separate wrong answers?
A: Yes.
Q: When you finally decide to go back to University Ave and you miraculously see the Perkins American flag just a few feet away, can you still face great obstacles like wire fences and prickly thistle before you can reach it?
A: Yes.
Q: Are there bloggers out there who cannot transfer Mapquest pictures onto their blog without taking a photo of the computer screen?
A: Yes.
Q: Does the red star on the map below indicate the place where the author of this post first got lost?
A: Yes.
the scene of a foul mood resulting from overheating, dehydration and being lost
If you can figure out how to get from the red star to Old Middleton Road, please email me. One woman swore there was a secret tunnel that took you underground right from University Ave to Old Middleton by Knoche's grocery store. If you know of it, I will PAY you if you tell me where it is.
Understanding Ariel
Ariel and I don’t speak the same language. Oh, we both use English words, but our meanings don’t coincide. She works behind the counter at Borders café and I am a frequent customer. I do tip her for the small latte I get, but perhaps she has figured out that once in a while I withhold the quarter and only throw in a dime (I like to keep a quarter around for parking reasons). Or something. She appears sanguine, yet she is completely areal in her approach to her job.
Ariel, I’ll say, the tables really need a wipe. Ariel gives a concerned look and hands over a wet rag. Ariel, a small skinny latte please. She takes the cash, forgets to punch my card, makes the coffee and carries it over to the opposite end of the counter and shouts out to the public “small skinny latte!” I sigh, go over, take my drink, come back to the cash register, give her my card, she punches it.
I have many such Ariel stories, all trivial and all part of my routine now. Someday I’ll have to work out good responses to her, as soon as I figure out why she always does that which, while not wrong, is not right either.
Ariel, I’ll say, the tables really need a wipe. Ariel gives a concerned look and hands over a wet rag. Ariel, a small skinny latte please. She takes the cash, forgets to punch my card, makes the coffee and carries it over to the opposite end of the counter and shouts out to the public “small skinny latte!” I sigh, go over, take my drink, come back to the cash register, give her my card, she punches it.
I have many such Ariel stories, all trivial and all part of my routine now. Someday I’ll have to work out good responses to her, as soon as I figure out why she always does that which, while not wrong, is not right either.
Monday, July 12, 2004
A prof’s crisis (it was not my fault!)
I am, I admit, rather a last minute person. I want to work ahead, but more often than not I prepare classes in the amount of time it takes, right before the class itself. If I need 10 hours to write up lecture notes, I will do it 10 waking hours prior to class. Risky? Not really. I give myself generous amounts of time so in case a tooth falls out and I have to detour to the dentist – I can accommodate that.
But I cannot accommodate what happened today.
I was to give lectures for three hours this morning, tomorrow morning, and Wednesday morning to the 30 foreign attorneys attending the Summer Program at the Law School. It is the first time that I’ve been asked to teach in the Program and so brand new lectures needed to be produced. By 6 am this morning, the first one was ready (yes, yes, a significant portion was written just yesterday).
I walk into the Law Building at a leisurely pace (I have an hour to spare! I am cool!), pick up my mail, leaf through it, think about reading blogs when suddenly, RED ALERT!! What’s this? A schedule of the Program that has me in addition slated to teach this afternoon?? Several more hours of lectures to give TODAY??
Naturally, I assumed that it was my fault, my oversight. But mostly I assumed that I would die of a heart attack and that would be that. Because I don’t HAVE my next set of lecture notes. Those were supposed to be generated this afternoon and evening.
In control, in control! Where is that Polish grit? I can do this!
I used every spare second, every bathroom break (for them – no such luxury for me – the caffeine and water had to stay in me until the ordeal was done with), the lunch hour, to produce the next batch of notes.
I never taught with such passion before. Passion replaced fear. Have you ever heard anyone pace and rave about the beautiful complexities of the Common Law tradition? Give spectacular examples of statutory interpretation? That was me! Brilliant it was not, but I doubt they noticed – they were too shocked that anyone would CARE that much about the law. (In fact, today I only cared about surviving.)
Two postscripts:
1. When I got home I retrieved the original schedule and noted that I WAS RIGHT! I hadn’t been in the original program for the afternoon. Small consolation.
2. I also noticed that I had neglected to remove the laundry tag from the back of my skirt and so the attorneys must now think that American profs wear red tags pinned to their clothes for decoration.
What a day.
The ultimate complement or the ultimate insult?
I was speaking to an attorney last night who works at the law firm where I once worked. He was with two other people (“I came to the reception with my family” he tells me) and I quickly realized that the young man was his son who was currently an undergrad and aspiring to be a lawyer someday. The other, a woman, said “I’m Y and I am the non-lawyer here, I teach dance.” I was about to say “and I assume the two of you aren't the parents here?” [Because there were some little tikes running around, belonging to some young couple, but typically, a college guy was not going to be the dad, even if he did marry early.] My Q was preempted by her next comment. She said “…and my kids, of course keep me busy, though X here (pointing to the college guy) is pretty much on his own by now.”
Whom would I have embarrassed more – the son, in an Oedipal sort of way, for my suggesting that his mother was his wife? The mother, for linking her romantically with her own son? Or myself for being so clueless as to the approximate age of a person?
Whom would I have embarrassed more – the son, in an Oedipal sort of way, for my suggesting that his mother was his wife? The mother, for linking her romantically with her own son? Or myself for being so clueless as to the approximate age of a person?
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Alone
I’ve just come back from a reception for the 30 participants in the Summer Program at the Law School – a program that teaches the basics of the American legal system to foreign attorneys and those seeking to further their legal education in the States. Thirty people, many from Asia, some from South America, a handful from Europe, including one from Poland, all here to take part in this intense course of study. Most are in the States for the first time. One lawyer from Korea is here with his entire family – wife and two adorable children; another lives in Berlin and works in a town that borders with Poland. And the Polish participant – she’s here after just barely finishing her legal studies in Poland. She lives in a small town outside Wroclaw. Most Americans have never even heard of Wroclaw. (She was shocked when I came up to her and started speaking Polish.)
I am impressed with the lot of them. To travel to a different academic setting, halfway around the world is difficult. [Been there, done that, and I never had the language issues to worry about.] To leave people behind in the close communities that you grew up in, be it Berlin or Tokyo is nearly impossible. I can guarantee that this evening will stand out for them for a long time, perhaps forever. The first 24 hours you spend in a completely alien setting is like that. You are alone, completely, utterly alone where no one understands anything about your life, your culture, your home. You are here for a purpose, but in the initial moments you can’t quite get a grasp on what the purpose is. You feel like you are totally out of your element.
Sometimes those impressions come back to haunt you even when you are no longer a new transplant. In later years, even when you know how to pretend otherwise, you understand that you are not part of this world, you are an outsider.
I am impressed with the lot of them. To travel to a different academic setting, halfway around the world is difficult. [Been there, done that, and I never had the language issues to worry about.] To leave people behind in the close communities that you grew up in, be it Berlin or Tokyo is nearly impossible. I can guarantee that this evening will stand out for them for a long time, perhaps forever. The first 24 hours you spend in a completely alien setting is like that. You are alone, completely, utterly alone where no one understands anything about your life, your culture, your home. You are here for a purpose, but in the initial moments you can’t quite get a grasp on what the purpose is. You feel like you are totally out of your element.
Sometimes those impressions come back to haunt you even when you are no longer a new transplant. In later years, even when you know how to pretend otherwise, you understand that you are not part of this world, you are an outsider.
Sunday rain
A summer rain on a Sunday afternoon... What to do?
1. Work on my lecture notes.
2. Listen to Ann on WHA radio talk about blogging (check her blog here -- she said on the radio she took pictures of the studio and so I expect a post any minute now) and give very good responses to caller comments!
3. Make use of yesterday's Market berries (see below). Chocolate is such a good companion to fruit.
1. Work on my lecture notes.
2. Listen to Ann on WHA radio talk about blogging (check her blog here -- she said on the radio she took pictures of the studio and so I expect a post any minute now) and give very good responses to caller comments!
3. Make use of yesterday's Market berries (see below). Chocolate is such a good companion to fruit.
Low tolerance for good things?
For some time now I’ve been worried that people are liking “nice” less and less and “rotten” (at least in small doses) more and more. [I am not worried that I am too nice. I am worried that the rest of the world will get off the niceness kick and turn more and more icky.]
I have two examples just from this past week. I was discussing the weather yesterday with a friend and he said “it’s too sunny and nice.” I responded with something not so nice, like “you are out of your mind!” But he countered with: “I’m not the only one. I was at a store where the clerks were commenting that they didn’t want to go downtown to the Art Fair because being out in this nice weather was no fun at all.”
In another instance of something that I think is quite related, I heard an NPR interview with an expert on classical guitar. He was talking about Andres Segovia’s charismatic playing and how much it had transformed that instrument into something that could be used in the classical context. I was listening to this with a good deal of interest since I am a fan of Segovia and have a scratchy, much overplayed record of his music.
The person commenting on classical guitar said, however, that in many ways, Segovia has been surpassed; that this generation of classical guitarists plays with a precision that Segovia lacked (if you listen to Segovia, you’ll inevitably pick out the “woosh” oh his shifting hand or the tweak of a string vibration that shouldn’t be there). The NPR person responded – “but that’s no good; isn’t it better if there is a demonstration of human imperfection, so that the piece doesn’t, in fact, come out flawless? There is such a thing as being ‘too good’ at something.”
Of course, my scratchy record hid Segovia’s flaws from me. But I would actually like the scratches not to be there, and listening to snippets from the young guitarists, I liked their ‘overkill on the perfection thing’ just fine. And I like bright weather, nice words and good designs, or at least attempts at getting as close to them as possible.
I have two examples just from this past week. I was discussing the weather yesterday with a friend and he said “it’s too sunny and nice.” I responded with something not so nice, like “you are out of your mind!” But he countered with: “I’m not the only one. I was at a store where the clerks were commenting that they didn’t want to go downtown to the Art Fair because being out in this nice weather was no fun at all.”
In another instance of something that I think is quite related, I heard an NPR interview with an expert on classical guitar. He was talking about Andres Segovia’s charismatic playing and how much it had transformed that instrument into something that could be used in the classical context. I was listening to this with a good deal of interest since I am a fan of Segovia and have a scratchy, much overplayed record of his music.
The person commenting on classical guitar said, however, that in many ways, Segovia has been surpassed; that this generation of classical guitarists plays with a precision that Segovia lacked (if you listen to Segovia, you’ll inevitably pick out the “woosh” oh his shifting hand or the tweak of a string vibration that shouldn’t be there). The NPR person responded – “but that’s no good; isn’t it better if there is a demonstration of human imperfection, so that the piece doesn’t, in fact, come out flawless? There is such a thing as being ‘too good’ at something.”
Of course, my scratchy record hid Segovia’s flaws from me. But I would actually like the scratches not to be there, and listening to snippets from the young guitarists, I liked their ‘overkill on the perfection thing’ just fine. And I like bright weather, nice words and good designs, or at least attempts at getting as close to them as possible.
So uncomplicated and so beautiful
Tomorrow is the 100th birthday of the late Pablo Neruda, perhaps the most beloved and widely read poet in the world. I am certainly a fan. From his simple odes to his love sonnets and everything in between – I like it all. I wanted to pick a favorite for the blog, but I have no favorite. It is the entirety that is, to me, so appealing.
“No theme would be beyond my orbit,” Neruda once said. And indeed, his collections are a testimonial to his remarkable versatility. In his “Odes About Everything” he describes what inspires him and what he puts down on paper:
…Odes
of all
hues and sizes,
seraphic, blue
or violent,
to eat,
to dance,
to follow footprints in the sand.
I might mentions that there is a Slavic connection to Neruda – for one, he adopted his name in honor of the Czechoslovak poet, Jan Neruda; for another, he was intimately associated with Poland’s Czeslaw Milosz – at least until their falling out over Neruda’s persistent support of communism.
Today, the Washington Post has an article by Edward Hirsch on the life and work of Neruda. It is well worth reading (here).
Ahh, Neruda would have been a fantastic blogger!
“No theme would be beyond my orbit,” Neruda once said. And indeed, his collections are a testimonial to his remarkable versatility. In his “Odes About Everything” he describes what inspires him and what he puts down on paper:
…Odes
of all
hues and sizes,
seraphic, blue
or violent,
to eat,
to dance,
to follow footprints in the sand.
I might mentions that there is a Slavic connection to Neruda – for one, he adopted his name in honor of the Czechoslovak poet, Jan Neruda; for another, he was intimately associated with Poland’s Czeslaw Milosz – at least until their falling out over Neruda’s persistent support of communism.
Today, the Washington Post has an article by Edward Hirsch on the life and work of Neruda. It is well worth reading (here).
Ahh, Neruda would have been a fantastic blogger!
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Saturday: point by point
Trivial points are exactly what a Saturday needs. Interspersed with Market color.
1. A visitor who had not been to Madison for a number of months flew in last night. As I pulled into the driveway (having picked her up at the airport) she looked out and said: “wow, what happened here?” I looked surprised and then concerned. She answered “the flowers! They’re a jungle! You can’t see the house, they’re so tall!” I explained about the spring rains, I pointed out that in daylight she would see a proliferation of color and texture and it would amaze her. “Can people make their way up the path to the front door though?” She asked, seemingly bewildered. Yes. I provide a hatchet and clippers. Jeez!
And, speaking of flowers, take a look at today’s, at the Market (yes, less wild than mine… hey, there’s room on this planet for all kinds):
orderly, kempt, colorful
summer gold
2. I have an internal alarm that I do not understand at all, it makes no sense, it is irrational. But I trust it: I always wake up just a few minutes before I have to get up (meaning before the alarm would sound if I were to set the alarm). I know many people recount similar experiences, but I think mine is an extreme situation because indeed, even if my waking time varies greatly (as it does depending on whether I’m teaching, or working at L’Etoile, or traveling in other time zones) I will always wake up about 5 minutes earlier. I’ve had this internal alarm for as long as I remember.
But today, I woke up 5 minutes AFTER I was to get up. This is so unnerving that I’m wondering if I should have a talk with a medical person. [But what do I say: I need an appointment to check why my internal alarm was 10 minutes off today?] I truly do not know what to make of it.
I made it in time to pick up (for myself!)the first blueberries of the season and the first Wisconsin corn. And these huge, flavorful strawberries – perfect for dipping in chocolate:
everyone should get a sixpack
how many ears per person?
SO impresssive. eat with chocolate!
3. Tory is the Chef de Cuisine at L’Etoile. Within the restaurant hierarchy, that puts him just below Odessa. If you eat something absolutely delicious on your night there, chances are it had Tory’s mark in some way. He is a fantastic, conscientious cook. He turned 29 today and it is remarkable that he has developed such skills at his young age. He told me that he first started cooking in his grandparents’ diner in Racine. He did his training at the French Culinary Institute in Manhattan, then, for seven years, he apprenticed at a wonderful assortment of New York restaurants. But he didn’t care for the people who came to the eating establishments in NYC and so he moved back to Wisconsin, just to catch his breath.
I just have to say this about him: Tory is a supremely kind person. I suppose it doesn’t matter if you’re eating there – you could very well love the food prepared by a mean lowlife. Still, I’ve seen staff come and go at L’Etoile and Tory is right up there, at the top of a select handful. Working with him, as a result, is total pleasure. And no, he does not read my blog, so I am not sucking up in any way. But if you do go to L’Etoile to eat, look for him (he’s there every night)and tell him that you heard he is super nice. Here’s a picture from today, just so you know who your man behind the stove is:
happy birthday, Tory
4. No, L’Etoile is not the only place to grab a nice bakery item on the week-end. Since I am not paid to stay loyal and advertise its unique virtues I can say that my eyes do stray often to other baked goods at the Market. These blueberry scones looked wonderful:
with a latte, with hot chocolate, with anything!
And in the end, I went with my out-of-town guests to Marigold Kitchen. How can you resist blueberry pancakes with orange butter and cinnamon granola? They’re not too sweet (you have pure maple syrup for that) and the taste is heavenly. Highly recommended.
5. I will not blog about Art Fair on the Square. I could say, I suppose, that for me, it made for a trying day because as a result of it, the Market had to downsize and move to Wilson Street. A shame for the framers because these weeks are their absolute peak in terms of produce.
Yes, I walked through the Art Fair briefly and yes, it has beautiful pieces and ugly things and all ranges in between (Ann, c’mon, cave in and blog about it!). Most people go just to look and on a gorgeous day like today, the Square was packed. Am I the only one that finds the prices, for the most part, insane? Much as I’m in favor of supporting struggling artists, I’m not sure these guys are struggling. And yes, I know that lawyers charge more for an hour of dribble than these artists do for an hour at the easel. One insanity, however, doesn’t justify the other.
(from the Art Fair) the glass is greener elsewhere
1. A visitor who had not been to Madison for a number of months flew in last night. As I pulled into the driveway (having picked her up at the airport) she looked out and said: “wow, what happened here?” I looked surprised and then concerned. She answered “the flowers! They’re a jungle! You can’t see the house, they’re so tall!” I explained about the spring rains, I pointed out that in daylight she would see a proliferation of color and texture and it would amaze her. “Can people make their way up the path to the front door though?” She asked, seemingly bewildered. Yes. I provide a hatchet and clippers. Jeez!
And, speaking of flowers, take a look at today’s, at the Market (yes, less wild than mine… hey, there’s room on this planet for all kinds):
orderly, kempt, colorful
summer gold
2. I have an internal alarm that I do not understand at all, it makes no sense, it is irrational. But I trust it: I always wake up just a few minutes before I have to get up (meaning before the alarm would sound if I were to set the alarm). I know many people recount similar experiences, but I think mine is an extreme situation because indeed, even if my waking time varies greatly (as it does depending on whether I’m teaching, or working at L’Etoile, or traveling in other time zones) I will always wake up about 5 minutes earlier. I’ve had this internal alarm for as long as I remember.
But today, I woke up 5 minutes AFTER I was to get up. This is so unnerving that I’m wondering if I should have a talk with a medical person. [But what do I say: I need an appointment to check why my internal alarm was 10 minutes off today?] I truly do not know what to make of it.
I made it in time to pick up (for myself!)the first blueberries of the season and the first Wisconsin corn. And these huge, flavorful strawberries – perfect for dipping in chocolate:
everyone should get a sixpack
how many ears per person?
SO impresssive. eat with chocolate!
3. Tory is the Chef de Cuisine at L’Etoile. Within the restaurant hierarchy, that puts him just below Odessa. If you eat something absolutely delicious on your night there, chances are it had Tory’s mark in some way. He is a fantastic, conscientious cook. He turned 29 today and it is remarkable that he has developed such skills at his young age. He told me that he first started cooking in his grandparents’ diner in Racine. He did his training at the French Culinary Institute in Manhattan, then, for seven years, he apprenticed at a wonderful assortment of New York restaurants. But he didn’t care for the people who came to the eating establishments in NYC and so he moved back to Wisconsin, just to catch his breath.
I just have to say this about him: Tory is a supremely kind person. I suppose it doesn’t matter if you’re eating there – you could very well love the food prepared by a mean lowlife. Still, I’ve seen staff come and go at L’Etoile and Tory is right up there, at the top of a select handful. Working with him, as a result, is total pleasure. And no, he does not read my blog, so I am not sucking up in any way. But if you do go to L’Etoile to eat, look for him (he’s there every night)and tell him that you heard he is super nice. Here’s a picture from today, just so you know who your man behind the stove is:
happy birthday, Tory
4. No, L’Etoile is not the only place to grab a nice bakery item on the week-end. Since I am not paid to stay loyal and advertise its unique virtues I can say that my eyes do stray often to other baked goods at the Market. These blueberry scones looked wonderful:
with a latte, with hot chocolate, with anything!
And in the end, I went with my out-of-town guests to Marigold Kitchen. How can you resist blueberry pancakes with orange butter and cinnamon granola? They’re not too sweet (you have pure maple syrup for that) and the taste is heavenly. Highly recommended.
5. I will not blog about Art Fair on the Square. I could say, I suppose, that for me, it made for a trying day because as a result of it, the Market had to downsize and move to Wilson Street. A shame for the framers because these weeks are their absolute peak in terms of produce.
Yes, I walked through the Art Fair briefly and yes, it has beautiful pieces and ugly things and all ranges in between (Ann, c’mon, cave in and blog about it!). Most people go just to look and on a gorgeous day like today, the Square was packed. Am I the only one that finds the prices, for the most part, insane? Much as I’m in favor of supporting struggling artists, I’m not sure these guys are struggling. And yes, I know that lawyers charge more for an hour of dribble than these artists do for an hour at the easel. One insanity, however, doesn’t justify the other.
(from the Art Fair) the glass is greener elsewhere
Friday, July 09, 2004
On a scale of 1 to 10, how thrilled am I with this?
The NYTimes has an article today (here) about the expansion of high speed internet access. Yes, its availability is expected now in hotels, cafés, airports. But trains? Planes? Automobiles?
The article addresses the difficulties of establishing Internet connections in moving vehicles with metal “skins.” Still, I think the expectation is that soon, the world will be one big hot spot.
Do I welcome these developments? Hard to say. I am thrilled that I can now work on my computer at Borders bookstore. But why is that so? It’s a bookstore, darn it, why do I feel compelled to take my work or my Internet surfing to a bookstore? Shouldn’t the ethicist speak out about this? Am I in any way contributing to the sales of books? And how about cafés: I like taking my computer there as well. But wait: what if my favorite cafés in France had a row of laptop users pounding away. Here, take this photo (below, taken just last year) and use your imagination. Place Parisians with computers at all the sidewalk tables. It’s WRONG!
Yet, just me sitting there blogging about the joys of people watching in Paris – I can make an exception for that…
I’m inconsistent. I want the options for myself but I want the rest of the world to take heed: laptops on long flights? Maybe. But not in French cafés. Please, let there be a few sacred spots in the world.
The article addresses the difficulties of establishing Internet connections in moving vehicles with metal “skins.” Still, I think the expectation is that soon, the world will be one big hot spot.
Do I welcome these developments? Hard to say. I am thrilled that I can now work on my computer at Borders bookstore. But why is that so? It’s a bookstore, darn it, why do I feel compelled to take my work or my Internet surfing to a bookstore? Shouldn’t the ethicist speak out about this? Am I in any way contributing to the sales of books? And how about cafés: I like taking my computer there as well. But wait: what if my favorite cafés in France had a row of laptop users pounding away. Here, take this photo (below, taken just last year) and use your imagination. Place Parisians with computers at all the sidewalk tables. It’s WRONG!
Yet, just me sitting there blogging about the joys of people watching in Paris – I can make an exception for that…
I’m inconsistent. I want the options for myself but I want the rest of the world to take heed: laptops on long flights? Maybe. But not in French cafés. Please, let there be a few sacred spots in the world.
A seasonal adjustment
Sometimes when I post something here, I cannot wait to post again, just so that the previous post does not stand out with its atrociously glaring title. Now is such a moment. Christmas on the blog is significantly out of place when I am chasing mosquitoes as I walk. So, just to appease my inner sense of balance let me post three pictures from this morning. They were taken in a place that is a five-minute walk from my house (Owen Woods). Whenever I groan too loudly about life in the suburbs, I am reminded that I have Owen Woods while New Yorkers have trees growing out of concrete slabs every thirty blocks and then I become quiet. [Until my next unhappy suburban moment.]
The prairie restoration project at Owen Woods is wonderful enough, though I think I want to set limits on what in the prairie I want restored. For example, the Black-eyed Susan and Echinacea are just fine, but the bugs – oh the bugs! They are obnoxiously intrusive and if I remember correctly from reading Laura Ingalls Wilder books, they caused one of the girls in the “Little House on the PRAIRIE” to go blind. So, yes to prairie restoration, but can we please do it with an eye toward plants that are repugnant to insect life? [Is that even possible?]
Christmas, communism and the return of the kid with the classy shoes
BoringAng is blogging about Christmas imagery and JeremyF is linking to Christian websites that warn against associating with atheists (might that include Communists? Do these websites see them as overlapping sets? Probably). Putting the two posts together reminds me of the FAQ that came my way (though not recently, and not in July): how did we deal with Christmas in Communist Poland? Given the prevalence of Catholicism even (or especially)in postwar Poland, was it celebrated? Repressed? Berated? Condemned?
Though as I have said before, my non-Catholicism kept me out of the churches during the holidays, I certainly did not mind otherwise horning in on Christmas celebrations. And Poland did (still does) Christmas in a big way, centering it mostly on feasting, but with music, tree-trimming and St. Nicholas thrown in as well (though St. Nick does a disappearing act after St. Nicholas Day early in the month, so as not to detract from the birth of Christ theme around the 24th and 25th). The churches appeared to me crowded year-round and so repression of religion has to be viewed as being somewhat at the level of abstraction. And governance, of course. Government offices had no religious iconography or ornamentation and I never saw a Christmas tree anywhere near the Communist Party headquarters. [Contemporary Poland seems to now scorn the “quaint” idea of separation of church and state.]
I do have to say, though, that I was a jaded kid. Did I “believe” in St. Nick and his sack of presents? My mother tells me I stopped when I was 5, immediately following the visit to the Warsaw Department store where my sister and I had this picture (below) taken. You can see the “yeah, sure” look on my face (I’m on the right). I am told I went up to “St. Nick” afterwards and told him loudly “you are SO not real,” much to the dismay of the children in line. I am quite ashamed of this now – what a spoiler. Note, as well, the postwar Poland haute couture. I don’t think I realized that people wore shoes for reasons other than protecting the feet from mud and sharp objects until I traveled to the States at the age of 7.
Warsaw, Poland, December 1958
Though as I have said before, my non-Catholicism kept me out of the churches during the holidays, I certainly did not mind otherwise horning in on Christmas celebrations. And Poland did (still does) Christmas in a big way, centering it mostly on feasting, but with music, tree-trimming and St. Nicholas thrown in as well (though St. Nick does a disappearing act after St. Nicholas Day early in the month, so as not to detract from the birth of Christ theme around the 24th and 25th). The churches appeared to me crowded year-round and so repression of religion has to be viewed as being somewhat at the level of abstraction. And governance, of course. Government offices had no religious iconography or ornamentation and I never saw a Christmas tree anywhere near the Communist Party headquarters. [Contemporary Poland seems to now scorn the “quaint” idea of separation of church and state.]
I do have to say, though, that I was a jaded kid. Did I “believe” in St. Nick and his sack of presents? My mother tells me I stopped when I was 5, immediately following the visit to the Warsaw Department store where my sister and I had this picture (below) taken. You can see the “yeah, sure” look on my face (I’m on the right). I am told I went up to “St. Nick” afterwards and told him loudly “you are SO not real,” much to the dismay of the children in line. I am quite ashamed of this now – what a spoiler. Note, as well, the postwar Poland haute couture. I don’t think I realized that people wore shoes for reasons other than protecting the feet from mud and sharp objects until I traveled to the States at the age of 7.
Warsaw, Poland, December 1958
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