So tonight I was at my Intro to Graduate Studies class and I was starving. (Is it just me or does it seem like a lot of my blog posts start off with me being hungry?) The class is held from 5 - 7 pm on Tuesday evenings and if it weren't for the entertainment factor of our professor Trent Hickman I'd probably hate it a lot more than I do.
Anyway, tonight I was hungry and I didn't have any foods with me to appease my stomach. We have a break halfway through the class, and normally I would have used that break to run down to the vending machines and grab a snack of sorts to tide me over until I could get home and eat real food. (and by real food I mean pasta) Well since my ID card is old and the mag strip is pretty well worn off of it the vending machines don't recognize it anymore so vending machine purchases are out. (I don't ever have any cash.) Unfortunately, tonight during our break one of my classmates left and when she came back she had this gorgeous (both in looks and smell) tomato that was stuffed with some kind of white cheese and smelled like garlic, butter and heaven.
I could tell from the looks on the faces of my other classmates that I wasn't the only one who was suffering as a result of her clearly visible gastronomical pleasure. Immediately I opened up my laptop and searched "stuffed tomato recipe." I found one that seemed fairly simple yet elegant and delicious so I decided that rather than my usual pasta dinner, I would break out of the norm and make some roasted tomatoes stuffed with parmesan, garlic and herbs.
After calling Maurianne a couple of times to figure out what exactly it means to "mince" garlic and whether or not I could substitute parchment paper with paper towels I managed to put together 15 fairly delicious looking pre-roasted roma tomatoes. I put them in the oven and waited anxiously.
After 20 minutes at 375 degrees F I pulled them out, fully expecting to see and smell a culinary delight. I was mildly disappointed.
They looked flat, and they smelled...crispy. Yes, crispy. That's the only word I can think of that adequately describes the smell.
I figured that was just the water that had cooked out, and I assumed the less-than-perfect appearance was due to atmospheric pressure or something, so I shoveled them onto a plate, took them down to my room and dug in.
Once again, I was mildly disappointed. They had a very weirdly interesting texture that I don't think I'm a huge fan of. The tomatoes were mushy and kinda slimy, and the ratio of bread crumbs to parmesan cheese was decidedly out of whack, erring on the side of too many bread crumbs, so the top part of the thing was crumbly and crunchy. They tasted alright, nothing to write home about (or write on one's blog about...unless you're trying to put off homework like me), but they weren't awful either.
Ultimately, they weren't nearly as delicious as that masterpiece that I had pined for during my class today, but they were edible and I ate nine of them. Jordan ate one and was done. So here are the five left-overs:
Like I said, they aren't that pretty, and their taste pretty much matched their looks. I guess the important part is that I had dinner and it was mildly healthy. meh.
Sometimes I'll be sitting in my room doing homework and I'll get restless and feel like if I don't get up and go do something I'll go crazy. When I say that I need to "get up and go do something," I don't know what exactly that means. And that's frustrating. I feel like I can't stay sitting still, but that I need to go...do something.
The something that I need to do is something active, or if not entirely active then at least something that involves getting up from my awesome chair and moving around at least a little bit. It's like my body is getting jealous of the workout I'm giving my mind, and it says to me, "Hey Sam! Hey, hey look down here. Let's go do something fun." But I can't go do something fun because I have things I need to do.
I have to revise a short paper for class in the morning
and I have to read the first 1/3 of First Democracyand I have to do a historiography-type assignment concerning Well-Bound Words: A Rhetoric and I have to finish reading Miller's The Evolution of College English: Literacy Studies from the Puritans to the Postmoderns and if I go do something active and fun I won't get all this work done that I need to get done.
Though I try to ignore it and push it down and away, the need to get up and about won't be ignored and keeps telling me that I have to "go do something."
This internal battle reaches fever-pitch and I'm becoming less and less productive with the homework I'm working on. I feel like if I sit in my chair any longer I'll burst, as much from my need to go be active as from the frustration that, at least tonight, I can't get all my homework done like a responsible student and "go do something."
The struggle intensifies, I'm not getting anything done at all, and I'm sure that before long I'll probably give up, sacrifice doing some of my homework and go for a run or something.
Then my roommate Joseph goes into his room (right next to mine), picks up his cello, and starts playing Vocalise by Rachmaninoff.
The paper-thin walls of our house allow for the beautifully clear tones of this piece to filter into and fill my room.
Inexplicably my internal tension dissipates almost immediately. The need to "go do something" is replaced by a feeling of contentment, joy and focus. Somehow the ineffable beauty of this simple yet elegant Vocalise has calmed my restless spirit.
So the last time I wrote on my blog school hadn't started yet. Well, it's started now. It's hard. For the first time in my life I have to actually buckle down and study. I've always been a decent student, but by no means stellar. I'll be the first to admit I could have worked a lot harder and done a lot more work as an undergraduate, but, as they say, that's neither here nor there.
Now I'm doing homework all the time. Seriously, all the time. There have been a couple of occasions when I've gotten frustrated and thought to myself that I'm not cut out for graduate school and that it's just too hard and that I'm not good enough to be here. But when that has happened I just go to bed, and when I wake up in the morning and go to class I realize I'm not as dumb as I thought and that I can acquit myself fairly well if I put in the time and effort to actually do the work assigned me.
Because of the intensity of my classes I would probably hate school a lot right now if it weren't for the fact that I love my classes. If for the first time in my life I'm actually working hard and being a good student, then I have to say that similarly, for the first time in my life I'm actually really, really enjoying all of my classes. Everyday I go to class and I'm fascinated by the discussion. Maybe the fact that I'm prepared for class and the discussions held therein leads to my interest in the subjects being discussed, but that line of thinking just leads us to a chicken and the egg dilemma, so I'll just leave it be.
As you're reading this you're probably asking yourself, "Sam, so what? Why do I/why should I care about your life in graduate school? In fact, why am I still reading this?" That's something I don't have an answer for and that you'll have to answer for yourself. A better question that you should be asking yourself at this point is this: "That's great Sam, but what does all of this have to do with illegal Irish moonshine?" Now that's a question I can answer.
Tonight I'm skipping FHE because I need to read Hawthorne's The Blithdale Romance for my Leadership in the Humanities class. The whole book. I should have read at least part of it over the weekend, but I was doing the reading for my Composition Pedagogy class instead and I didn't get around to Hawthorne. On top of reading The Blithdale Romance, I have to write a short "progress report" on it discussing my evolving definition of leadership as it relates to the humanities and the ways that Hawthorne's work has helped to shape that definition. I then have to present this short paper to my class tomorrow morning. In short, I have a lot to do tonight. It's going to be enjoyable, but it'll be a lot all the same. You'll notice I still haven't answered the question about "that sweet poitin."
Well, my soundtrack for the evening started out with this:
and has gone on to include this:
this:
this:
and this:
I could continue on in this vein, but you get the idea.
While I've never been to Ireland and therefore my views of the same may be somewhat romanticized, right now I want nothing more than to sit in a pub with some good friends and order myself some bangers and mash and a tall brew. Except I'd probably just order a soda not a brew. Because I don't drink. While I'm really enjoying school, this little scenario that I've just painted sounds a lot more appealing. Unfortunately I can't do any of this.
Instead I'll have to content myself with listening to drinking songs and dreaming of a place where, "at the foot of the hill there's a neat little still where the smoke curls up to the sky. [And where] by the smoke and the smell you can plainly tell that there's poitin brewing nearby."
Maybe in a little while I'll take a break and go off campus to buy myself some Provo poitin: Cherry Coke.
So on the drive back from Provo to Bluffdale this evening I saw the most incredible sunset. I'd have taken a picture, but I was driving. But really, it was amazing. Luckily the traffic wasn't too heavy so I was able to watch as the sun's rays illuminated the golden clouds against on the darkening blue sky. The scene was made doubly beautiful because the whole scene was reflected over the lake, which reflection was visible even from the freeway. During the drive I watched as the clouds went from gold to orange to pink to purple, each shade and hue blending seamlessly into the next in an endless palate of color. Again, words and language fail to really illuminate the beauty of the scene, but they'll have to suffice for now.
But this post isn't supposed to be about the sunset, it's about music.
While I was enjoying the sunset the following songs (my iPod was set to shuffle through the whole library) played in this order:
Is There A Ghost - Band of Horses (best summertime-drive-fast-down-a-lonely-road song ever)
Rhapsody On a Theme of Paganini, Op. 43: Variation 18: Andante Cantabile - Rachmaninoff (just the 18th variation and just the first 3 minutes of the video below)
Flamenco Sketches - Miles Davis (left me feeling Kind of Blue)
No Cars Go - Arcade Fire (another great summertime song)
I Love You Always Forever - Donna Lewis (I'm a romantic at heart and I secretly love this song. I know it's corny, and think less of me if you will, but there it is. Also, I know the video here is super cheesy, but the youtube machine won't let me embed the official video.)
You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet - BTO (yep)
Over the Rainbow - Eva Cassidy (sweet merciful, that voice)
Strawberry Swing - Coldplay (this song has been coming up a lot lately when my iPod is set to random)
Variations on a Theme of Paganini - Rachmaninoff (yeah, the full thing this time, not just the 18th. Funny coincidence.)
Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini took me to the driveway where I parked and I sat in the car listening until the piece was over. I was sitting there in the driveway for a good 12 minutes after I'd parked, and it was 12 wonderful minutes.
If you listened/watched all of those videos I'm impressed; I didn't expect you to. If you didn't, well, there you go.
Now I don't mean this post to be one of those, "hey look at me and my diverse music collection. I'm awesome!" type of posts. Not at all in fact. Rather, as I was driving down I-15 listening to this music and viewing this amazing sunset I was pondering to myself the question of identity as it relates to music. Identity is something that I've been thinking a lot about lately. I like to think about what aspects of our lives are true markers of who we are at our very core, and what aspects of our lives we think are the true markers of who we are. Sometimes the two coincide, but not as often as I think we might like to believe.
Speaking of this, I was once told by a good friend that this picture of me explained, for her, my character entirely. The very essence of who I am, Samuel James Dunn, Esq., the whole package deal, is here all wrapped up neatly with a bow on top (or rather a small child's stocking cap). I'm not sure what was meant by that statement, nor do I think I agree with it entirely, but it's interesting to think about.
A thorough discussion of identity and what aspects of our lives really make up who we are could be the subject of many, many volumes. That said, it's often told that the music we listen to is one of these defining markers. Now I don't claim to be any kind of expert on philosophical identity as demonstrated by music, far from it, but the idea is an interesting one to play with.
For a long time people only really listened to one genre of music. That's not to say that there weren't different genres, but each person typically would listen to one kind of music and that would suffice. I'm sure there was crossover, but doubt it was ever very drastic. The kind of music that you listened to was a tale-tell sign of who you were. The kinds of interests you had, what you liked to do in your spare time and the kinds of people you liked to associate with could all be surmised if you told someone what kind of music you liked to listen to. This was a true statement until Generation Y -- my generation -- came around.
One of the distinguishing features of Generation Y is its eclectic taste in music. While here above we have just a small sampling of what I listen to, if I had continued with this exercise I'm sure that I'd have gotten a taste of Duran Duran, The Avett Brothers, Diana Krall, Garth Brooks, Neutral Milk Hotel and Shostakovitch, to name a few. My music taste is spread across the map. So what does that say about my character and my identity? I could just say that I'm great because I'm able to appreciate such diversity, but I'm not sure that's an entirely accurate summation. And some of the questions that have arisen on the subject aren't entirely flattering.
If music is a marker of identity, but my taste in music in indefinable, does that mean that, my character is likewise indefinable and I don't have a handle on who I am? Am I easily swayed by every wind of music because I have no firm, anchored sense of identity? Or, on a slightly more positive note, am I just the physical embodiment of the hodge-podge, melting pot America that we always hear so much about? Perhaps something else altogether. Do I yearn for acceptance so badly that I shape my tastes, and thus my identity, to fit into any societal situation in chameleon-like fashion? Is it just that I've been raised in a cultural time period that refuses to see the world as black and white, good and bad in any aspect and so I feel incapable of passing such harsh judgment on any kind of music.
Frankly I'm not sure I can fully support any of these propositions, but I think they might all have at least a hint of truth to them. I think I have a pretty good handle on who I am; like I said the question of identity is one I think about a lot and I've come to some conclusions about myself. But the question remains, how exactly does my musical taste inform my identity? Or perhaps more importantly, does it at all? Has all this contemplation just been an exercise in futility?
This is something I'm probably going to have to keep thinking about, and I welcome any input on the matter. For now, though, there is one thing I do know for sure: the sunset today was phenomenal. Also, despite all the music I've been listening to today, I've had "Ring of Fire" stuck in my head ever since dinner yesterday thanks to Lee and Melanie.
Addendum as of 8:40 a.m. 8/23/11:
I wrote all that about identity and such last night before I fell asleep. This morning as I came back to Provo from Bluffdale, and as my iPod went from "Return to Innocence" by Enigma to "La Donna è Mobile" from Verdi's Rigoletto as performed by Pavarotti, and then to "Stand" by R.E.M., I decided that my basic assumption that music inflects character wasn't entirely accurate, and that I'm just awesome.
It's currently one o'clock in the a.m. I'm not feeling super hot...
No, that's not entirely true; let's begin again (pronounced uh-gayne).
It's currently one oh eight in the ɛɚ̯ em (am), and I am simultaneously super hot and not feeling all that well. I came home from work today and 1- drank a quart and a half of gatorade then 2- slept for about three hours. After which time I 3-woke up and 4- ate a package of Ramen. I then 5- turned on a little Thelonious Monk while I 6- read What the Dog Saw on our new and extremely uncomfortable couches. While reading, I 7- fell asleep yet again until I 8- woke up thanks to Seth and co.'s entrance. Shortly thereafter, I 9- watched Danny Kaye in The Court Jestor and 10- laughed myself silly. I felt certain that steps 1-10 would help me feel a bit better, but instead they have merely left me unable to sleep. So I'm lying in bed with a cold, a headache, and a hope that blogging will invite the sandman. (Who gets a cold in August? I mean really.)
But all of this is beside the point that I'm trying to make here. That point is this: Borders is closing.
*moment of silence*
Borders has been one of my sweet havens that I run to when I need an escape. Something about the smell of the coffee and being surrounded by some of the finest written word the English-speaking world has produced fills me with a sense of belonging, of security and warmth that is difficultly found. I won't overly-romanticize the situation by not acknowledging the presence of some of the trashiest and kitschy-est works produced as well (how do people get their Pride and Prejudice fan fictions published?), but you have to take the good with the bad; that's life.
I have spent countless hours in the Provo Borders reading and perusing anything that struck my fancy. One evening a couple summers ago I went there fully intent on not leaving until I understood the hype about Orwell's 1984; I ended up leaving two hours and 50 pages later, bleary-eyed and completely nonplussed; I still don't get it. (Can you use two semicolons in one sentence? Because I just did.) There was the Saturday morning I spent scads of time looking through art books full of everything from mannerism to pointillism to Banksy. Last summer I spent several days on the Percy Jackson and Hunger Games series when I desperately needed something popcorn-y that wasn't too intellectually stimulating. Whenever I needed an emotional release I went and pored over any and all of the poetry I could get my hands on, glorying in the simple beauty of Collins, reveling in the imagery of Hardy, tapping my foot to the rhythm of Hughes and wondering why more people didn't read Cavafy. (While on the topic of Cavafy, sometimes I want to learn Greek to read his original work and not just translations) I went to Borders on numerous occasions to study for the GRE. There was the terrifying evening when I woke up completely disoriented and unaware of where I was; only after taking several deep breaths and finding a copy of Maus in my lap did I realize I had fallen asleep at Borders. I even considered applying for a job there at one point.
I could continue on reminiscing about the time I've spent at Borders (like the afternoon I dedicated to reading a reference book about Yiddish words and phrases that have been adopted into English) but I think this suffices.
People will probably think it's strange that I've grown so attached so some cold, nationwide chain-of-a-bookstore, especially after the thorough criticizing and reviling that such stores received in You've Got Mail, but I will be genuinely sad to see Borders close its doors for the last time.
...I've been laying here in my bed staring at that last sentence I just wrote for several minutes now thinking about its implications, and I've had a bit of a paradigm shift. Yes it's sad, but at the same time I'm now being afforded the opportunity to go find a new shelter from the storm. I'm being given the opportunity to go out and find a new place of comfort and reflection. Hopefully the journey to find it will be an adventure worthy of Ithaca.
I think I'll set off tomorrow, assuming my headache is gone and this cold has run its course by then.
I haven't written on my blog for a while now. At the beginning of this year I was doing really well and writing on it all the time, but after I posted that last bit about the cover letter that eventually helped me land the job I have now, I haven't posted anything. That's not to say I haven't written anything. Actually quite a few times I've started writing something, but I whenever I start writing here I inevitably end up feeling like I'm at work, which of course leads to me feeling disinterested so I stop. In fact, just to prove that I haven't been entirely lackadaisical, I'm going to post the post fragments from the past two months. Here goes:
5/19/11 Flowers
"I love flowers. Unashamedly. We live in a world where there is very specific demarcation between things manly and things girly; flowers and the loving of them falls clearly in the latter. To be frank, I don't care. Flowers have the awe-inspiring ability to brighten the world around them no matter the circumstance. Sometimes the future looks like it's going to suck. Sometimes the storms of our lives (school, work, social obligations, pressures that comes from any and all directions for a multiplicity of reasons) rage to the point that it seems like resistance is futile and we might as well give up and lay down in the ditch to avoid the wind. But when upon these billows of life, if we'll just take a few minutes to stop and contemplate a flower, with its majestic and eternal beauty, I submit that even those who feel like they're in the darkest abyss will find a glimmer of hope..."
I'm not sure what sparked this, but I remain firmly in the flower-lovers' camp.
5/29/11 Memorial Day
"Memorial Day is my favorite holiday...I think. It might be Easter. But that's beside the point right now. Most people, when they think of Memorial Day, think, "Wahoo, day off work/school." They see Memorial Day as late spring's version of Labor Day and little more. But ever since I was a little kid and would go with Mom to Berrett's Blossoms early on Memorial Day morning to pick up the flowers for Emily's and Grandma and Grandpa Turner's graves..."
As you can see I was trying to explicate my affection for Memorial Day. I'm sure it would've been touching had I taken time to finish it.
6/1/11 Untitled
"I pride myself on not being a prescriptivist grammarian. I know the rules of grammar...for the most part. (Comma rules still trip me up every now and again, but they're such a fickle lot that I don't pay them much heed anyway.) I think that prescriptivism would be a dreary lens through which to view life to view life through. Descriptivism is so much more liberating. I know the rules, I follow them when it is altogether fitting and proper that I do so, but I'm not tied down by some pedantic and arbitrary system of rules foisted upon the unsuspecting world by self-indulgent and narcissistic, ivory-tower know-it-alls. Sometimes you just need to say, "Yeah, I might could do that for you." It's not right, it's colloquial, but it's a whole lot more efficient, in terms of words used and breath/life spent than to use the more correct "be able to." I feel like that's a ..."
To be honest, I don't know where I was going with this one. I'm sure it would've been wonderful and witty, but, again, I couldn't be bothered to finish.
6/17/11
"'Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.' -- Henry David Thoreau
Maybe it's because I've been reading Walden on my lunch breaks of late, but I've decided I want to change the world..."
I'm still reading Walden, and while I recognize that not all of what Thoreau said is directly applicable to our lives, I still think we would do well to better espouse some of the ideas he talks about. On a semi-related note, I really want to swim in Walden pond. I recently chatted with a friend of mine and she was telling me about when she went skinny-dipping in Walden. I don't think I'd go quite that far, but hearing her talk about the experience made me want to feel that cool, clear Massachusetts water and take a couple strokes. I've definitely put that one on my 'To Do' list.
6/26/11 Walking
"I never cease to be amazed at what a therapeutic activity walking is...."
Yep, I'm still amazed.
So there you go, the blogging fruits of my last two months. The reason I haven't posted much is my job requires me to work almost entirely with blogs 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. From DUI attorney blogs to gay pride store blogs to wedding photographer blogs to HVAC blogs I am constantly commenting on and writing blog posts. Don't get me wrong I love working there and I love the people I work with (I especially love throwing things at Ryan), but by the time I get home I want nothing to do with computers. Resultingly, I've neglected informing the world as to my exploits. I'll see if I can't do better.
