I'm not quite sure what's brought this up in my mind lately, but I have been thinking about the important people in my life. Friends, family, and the all-important third category: mentors.
I've been lucky enough to have a few people in my life take me under their wing and help me spread my own wings. These are people I've been able to turn to for advice professional, personal, and otherwise. People whose wisdom carries more weight than a forklift in Costco. People whose compliments are more meaningful than a positive review in the New York Times and whose disapproval -- however rare -- is enough to outweigh even the most any Jewish Mother can dish out.
I really don't have any more to say on this subject other than the fact that I know how lucky I've been -- and continue to be -- and that I hope to one day provide this service to others. I hope there is someone I have touched in a way that scratches the surface to these people around me, but I know that I cannot have nearly the same weight until I've been through another 20-or-so years of, well, life.
Certainly gives me something to look forward to!
Monday, February 9, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Lesser Known Ballets
I recently rediscovered the joy of reading for no other reason than the desire to have some intimate time with a book.
Of course, that's a blog entry for another time. Right now, I want to share some writings from Woody Allen's Without Feathers.
From his section on lesser known ballets, these are my two favorites thus far. (I have not finished the section yet, but these were too good not to share.)
--
Dmitri
The ballet opens at a carnival. There are refreshments and rides. Many people in gaily colored costumes dance and laugh, to the accompaniment of flutes and woodwinds, while the trombones play in a minor key to suggest that soon the refreshments will run out and everybody will be dead.
Wandering around the fairgrounds is a beautiful girl named Natasha, who is sad because her father has been sent to fight in Khartoum, and there is no war there. Following her is Leonid, a young student, who is too shy to speak to Natasha but places a mixed-green salad on her doorstep every night. Natasha is moved by the gift and wishes she could meet the man who is sending it, particularly since she hates the house dressing and would prefer Roquefort.
The two strangers accidentally meet when Leonid, trying to compose a love note to Natasha, falls out of the Ferris wheel. She helps him up, and the two dance a pas de deux, after which Leonid tries to impress her by rolling his eyes until he has to be carried to the comfort station. Leonid offers profuse apologies and suggests that the two of them stroll to Tent No. 5 and watch a puppet show -- and invitation that confirms to Natasha's mind the idea that she is dealing with an idiot.
The puppet show, however, is enchanting, and a large, amusing puppet named Dmitri falls in love with Natasha. She realizes that although he is only sawdust, he has a soul, and when he suggests checking into a hotel as Mr. and Mrs. John Doe, she is excited. The two dance a pas de deux, despite the fact that she just danced a pas de deux and is perspiring like an ox. Natasha confesses her love for Dmitri and swears that the two of them will always be together, even though the man who works his strings will have to sleep on a cot in the parlor.
Leonid, outraged at being thrown over for a puppet, shoots Dmitri, who doesn't die but appears on the roof of the Merchants Bank, drinking haughtily from a bottle of Air Wick. The action becomes confused, and there is much rejoicing when Natasha fractures her skull.
--
A Day in the Life of a Doe
Unbearably lovely music is heard as the curtain rises, and we see the woods on a summer afternoon. A fawn dances on and nibbles slowly at some leaves. he drifts lazily through the soft foliage. Soon he starts coughing and drops dead.
Of course, that's a blog entry for another time. Right now, I want to share some writings from Woody Allen's Without Feathers.
From his section on lesser known ballets, these are my two favorites thus far. (I have not finished the section yet, but these were too good not to share.)
--
Dmitri
The ballet opens at a carnival. There are refreshments and rides. Many people in gaily colored costumes dance and laugh, to the accompaniment of flutes and woodwinds, while the trombones play in a minor key to suggest that soon the refreshments will run out and everybody will be dead.
Wandering around the fairgrounds is a beautiful girl named Natasha, who is sad because her father has been sent to fight in Khartoum, and there is no war there. Following her is Leonid, a young student, who is too shy to speak to Natasha but places a mixed-green salad on her doorstep every night. Natasha is moved by the gift and wishes she could meet the man who is sending it, particularly since she hates the house dressing and would prefer Roquefort.
The two strangers accidentally meet when Leonid, trying to compose a love note to Natasha, falls out of the Ferris wheel. She helps him up, and the two dance a pas de deux, after which Leonid tries to impress her by rolling his eyes until he has to be carried to the comfort station. Leonid offers profuse apologies and suggests that the two of them stroll to Tent No. 5 and watch a puppet show -- and invitation that confirms to Natasha's mind the idea that she is dealing with an idiot.
The puppet show, however, is enchanting, and a large, amusing puppet named Dmitri falls in love with Natasha. She realizes that although he is only sawdust, he has a soul, and when he suggests checking into a hotel as Mr. and Mrs. John Doe, she is excited. The two dance a pas de deux, despite the fact that she just danced a pas de deux and is perspiring like an ox. Natasha confesses her love for Dmitri and swears that the two of them will always be together, even though the man who works his strings will have to sleep on a cot in the parlor.
Leonid, outraged at being thrown over for a puppet, shoots Dmitri, who doesn't die but appears on the roof of the Merchants Bank, drinking haughtily from a bottle of Air Wick. The action becomes confused, and there is much rejoicing when Natasha fractures her skull.
--
A Day in the Life of a Doe
Unbearably lovely music is heard as the curtain rises, and we see the woods on a summer afternoon. A fawn dances on and nibbles slowly at some leaves. he drifts lazily through the soft foliage. Soon he starts coughing and drops dead.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Micro Memoirs, Week 2
I'm taking a class this semester, "Micro memoirs." (How ME does that sound?)
Anyway, we have weekly exercises to do out of a book. We have to set a timer for 5 minutes and we only have those 5 minutes to write.
Here are this week's three. Note: The first is completely true, the second is made up yet comes from truth and is totally plausible for me, and the third is true except for the last line. (She still watches...)
--
MOMENTS (Think of small moments in your life that had energy -- that made you feel alive. Pick one and set your timer for 5 minutes.)
It was hot, I was feeling sick, and I'd just put a deposit down on a 5th floor walkup in Yorkville. I had just given up my RA job, and thus was newly homeless with the plan to spend my summer on Cape Cod with my family, but for now, I was living on a sofa in the East Village. I was excited by this small refrigerator box I was soon to call my apartment – with my roommate – but more than anything, I was glad to be underground inside a crowded downtown 6 train; it was the first place I'd been in a week with air conditioning.
I make a habit of looking around on the subway; making up people's stories, having inner-dialogues with them, and even the occasional eye contact. But there had never been a connection like this.
She was short – about 5'1”, with shoulder-length brown hair, a pink polka-dotted headband, a brown dress coming right above her knees, and tan flip-flops with a pink strap weaved between her toes. She was grasping a silver Tiffany's heart necklace. She looked at me, and I looked back at her – but even more than that, I looked into her – deep into her eyes – and she began to cry.
–
SOUND PIECE (Choose the sound from the list (long list to the right) with the most energy or choose one that leaves you cold. Keep in mind that a murmur may have more energy for you than a shriek.)
That damn drip shower won't stop. drip, drip. I can't drip handle it. I try to drown it out with headphones, but I've been drip wearing headphones all day – it's the hazard of working in radio. I just want my ears naked, exposed to the drip fresh-air, or what passes for it in my apartment.
It wouldn't bother me if it were more regular. Then I drip would be able to tune it out.
Or would that make it drip worse? Would that force me to use it as a metro-drip-nome for the songs in my head that cannot drip stop and let me just drip be drip alone.
But with this irregular driping that is going on, I have to wait for the next one. I have to wait for when it will drip fall. I want to write it out and catch the drip music on my score paper; turn it into the next great drip American symphony. Or at least the next great New York City Aria. I mean is there any-drip-thing more Manhattan than a leaky drip shower?
It drives me mad. I can't take drip it anymore. My roommate, in the room next to the drip bathroom, does not hear it. He thinks I've drip lost my mind. He may not be right quite drip yet, but if I don't find a wrench, he drip will drip be.
–
BOX (The box may be big enough to hold the Sahara Desert or small enough to hold a molecule of dust. Set your timer for five minutes and go.)
It's a new car! I loved watching “The Price is Right” when I was little. It was what I looked forward to most when I stayed home sick as an 8-year-old with the flu. That and cinnamon toast.
My favorite part of “The Price is Right” wasn't the prizes, or guessing along with the contestants, or even the pride I got when my bid would have been the winning bid when everyone else had an overbid. But I looked forward to my grandmother – the worrier of the family – calling me after it was over to see how I was feeling, and more importantly, to discuss the Showcase Showdown.
Did you see that? I've never seen someone win them both before!
Neither had I, of course. I was 8, and she'd been watching the show since before I was born – a time concept not understood by 8-year-olds.
I stopped watching “The Price is Right” when my mother implemented a rule that if you're healthy enough to watch TV, you're healthy enough to go to school.
My grandmother did, too.
Anyway, we have weekly exercises to do out of a book. We have to set a timer for 5 minutes and we only have those 5 minutes to write.
Here are this week's three. Note: The first is completely true, the second is made up yet comes from truth and is totally plausible for me, and the third is true except for the last line. (She still watches...)
--
MOMENTS (Think of small moments in your life that had energy -- that made you feel alive. Pick one and set your timer for 5 minutes.)
It was hot, I was feeling sick, and I'd just put a deposit down on a 5th floor walkup in Yorkville. I had just given up my RA job, and thus was newly homeless with the plan to spend my summer on Cape Cod with my family, but for now, I was living on a sofa in the East Village. I was excited by this small refrigerator box I was soon to call my apartment – with my roommate – but more than anything, I was glad to be underground inside a crowded downtown 6 train; it was the first place I'd been in a week with air conditioning.
I make a habit of looking around on the subway; making up people's stories, having inner-dialogues with them, and even the occasional eye contact. But there had never been a connection like this.
She was short – about 5'1”, with shoulder-length brown hair, a pink polka-dotted headband, a brown dress coming right above her knees, and tan flip-flops with a pink strap weaved between her toes. She was grasping a silver Tiffany's heart necklace. She looked at me, and I looked back at her – but even more than that, I looked into her – deep into her eyes – and she began to cry.
–
SOUND PIECE (Choose the sound from the list (long list to the right) with the most energy or choose one that leaves you cold. Keep in mind that a murmur may have more energy for you than a shriek.)
That damn drip shower won't stop. drip, drip. I can't drip handle it. I try to drown it out with headphones, but I've been drip wearing headphones all day – it's the hazard of working in radio. I just want my ears naked, exposed to the drip fresh-air, or what passes for it in my apartment.
It wouldn't bother me if it were more regular. Then I drip would be able to tune it out.
Or would that make it drip worse? Would that force me to use it as a metro-drip-nome for the songs in my head that cannot drip stop and let me just drip be drip alone.
But with this irregular driping that is going on, I have to wait for the next one. I have to wait for when it will drip fall. I want to write it out and catch the drip music on my score paper; turn it into the next great drip American symphony. Or at least the next great New York City Aria. I mean is there any-drip-thing more Manhattan than a leaky drip shower?
It drives me mad. I can't take drip it anymore. My roommate, in the room next to the drip bathroom, does not hear it. He thinks I've drip lost my mind. He may not be right quite drip yet, but if I don't find a wrench, he drip will drip be.
–
BOX (The box may be big enough to hold the Sahara Desert or small enough to hold a molecule of dust. Set your timer for five minutes and go.)
It's a new car! I loved watching “The Price is Right” when I was little. It was what I looked forward to most when I stayed home sick as an 8-year-old with the flu. That and cinnamon toast.
My favorite part of “The Price is Right” wasn't the prizes, or guessing along with the contestants, or even the pride I got when my bid would have been the winning bid when everyone else had an overbid. But I looked forward to my grandmother – the worrier of the family – calling me after it was over to see how I was feeling, and more importantly, to discuss the Showcase Showdown.
Did you see that? I've never seen someone win them both before!
Neither had I, of course. I was 8, and she'd been watching the show since before I was born – a time concept not understood by 8-year-olds.
I stopped watching “The Price is Right” when my mother implemented a rule that if you're healthy enough to watch TV, you're healthy enough to go to school.
My grandmother did, too.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
What I learned at camp
Yeah, I know, it's been over 5 months since the end of camp, but I was recently asked to write up a quick thing about what I've learned from camp, so I thought I'd share with all 5 of my readers, too...
-I learned the difference between good winging it and bad winging it.
-I learned how to adjust.
-I learned how to pretend something is the most fun activity EVER, even if I hate it, if only because my enthusiasm is infectious for everyone from 6 to 16, and not because I'm furry and lovable, but because when you're in charge, people look to you for how they should react.
-I learned that when you have high expectations of someone from day one, they may fall short at first, but most of the time, they rise to the challenge and exceed your wildest dreams.
-I learned that a little camaraderie and good-will go a long way in making a great environment.
-I learned that the greatest people in the world all are still children at heart.
-I learned that you can do absolutely anything with 6 cones, 2 playground balls, 2 hula hoops, pinnies, and a smile.
-Or even just a smile.
-I learned how to lead.
-And more importantly, I learned when the best thing is to let someone else lead.
-And most importantly, I learned how to truly be me.
I'll miss that place...
-I learned the difference between good winging it and bad winging it.
-I learned how to adjust.
-I learned how to pretend something is the most fun activity EVER, even if I hate it, if only because my enthusiasm is infectious for everyone from 6 to 16, and not because I'm furry and lovable, but because when you're in charge, people look to you for how they should react.
-I learned that when you have high expectations of someone from day one, they may fall short at first, but most of the time, they rise to the challenge and exceed your wildest dreams.
-I learned that a little camaraderie and good-will go a long way in making a great environment.
-I learned that the greatest people in the world all are still children at heart.
-I learned that you can do absolutely anything with 6 cones, 2 playground balls, 2 hula hoops, pinnies, and a smile.
-Or even just a smile.
-I learned how to lead.
-And more importantly, I learned when the best thing is to let someone else lead.
-And most importantly, I learned how to truly be me.
I'll miss that place...
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Optimism
I've recently become an optimist, and I hate myself for it.
I'm a curmudgeon! Optimists and their eternal optimism bug me! I mean, c'mon, NOBODY'S that upbeat all the time!
And yet, in the last couple months, I was 2 hours late coming back to New York because someone jumped in front of our train, I have had some physical pain like nothing I've ever had before, I had my locker broken into at the gym and my new phone and cash stolen, I've lost a sock doing laundry, and countless other things that when added up, would normally turn me into the muppet-watching hermit I love myself for being.
And yet?
My responses have been:
"Well, it's an adventure! And this was a great way to break the ice to have conversation with everyone around me!"
"At least now I have an excuse for not being able to sleep! And think of how good I'll feel once I find a massage therapist!"
"Nice, new, expensive phone? yes. Annoying? Yes. But I got the phone for free, so it isn't like I lost actual money from it...and hey; it took 4-and-a-half years of living in New York for something like this to happen to me!"
"Neato! I now have an extra sock in case I get a hole in one!"
and finally
"Well, whether the glass is half-empty or half-full, there's still something in it!"
How can I NOT hate myself for this? I've become everything I hate!
Just one more way I'm a self-hating Jew, I guess...
(Forgive the redundancy.)
I'm a curmudgeon! Optimists and their eternal optimism bug me! I mean, c'mon, NOBODY'S that upbeat all the time!
And yet, in the last couple months, I was 2 hours late coming back to New York because someone jumped in front of our train, I have had some physical pain like nothing I've ever had before, I had my locker broken into at the gym and my new phone and cash stolen, I've lost a sock doing laundry, and countless other things that when added up, would normally turn me into the muppet-watching hermit I love myself for being.
And yet?
My responses have been:
"Well, it's an adventure! And this was a great way to break the ice to have conversation with everyone around me!"
"At least now I have an excuse for not being able to sleep! And think of how good I'll feel once I find a massage therapist!"
"Nice, new, expensive phone? yes. Annoying? Yes. But I got the phone for free, so it isn't like I lost actual money from it...and hey; it took 4-and-a-half years of living in New York for something like this to happen to me!"
"Neato! I now have an extra sock in case I get a hole in one!"
and finally
"Well, whether the glass is half-empty or half-full, there's still something in it!"
How can I NOT hate myself for this? I've become everything I hate!
Just one more way I'm a self-hating Jew, I guess...
(Forgive the redundancy.)
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Routine
I'm a creature of habit...but if you know me well enough to be reading this blog, chances are, you knew that already.
Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday of Freshman year, I went into the same little storefront and got a lemon Snapple and paid exact change ($1.25) for it. My routine was so well-known that, by the end of the year, as I walked in, Abdul (the proprietor) was reaching into his fridge to get the Snapple as I was walking in. (This regular-ness also was beneficial when I went in the one and only time I did not have exact change. He could not break my $20 and said, "Don't worry about it; You'll pay me on Tuesday." (I, of course, did. In fact, when I paid him, he'd forgotten and said, 'What's this for?' 'Friday.' I mean, sure a free Snapple would have been nice, but $1.25 was already cheaper than any other place around...)
I take the same path to walk to the Subway every morning.
I hit Snooze the same number of times every morning -- whether I need to or not. (This one's a little weird, yes...but let's take Friday: I hit Snooze and then got out of bed. The alarm going off is how I gauge how long I have until I have to leave.)
Where was I going with this post...
Oh yeah; routine.
Today was my last day of jury duty, and I'm going to miss that routine. The entire month of January (and today), I had jury duty from 10a-1p and work from 2p-6p. The daily routine was something I really enjoyed and could handle quite easily. It was much less stressful than the hectic 12-hour Tuesdays with Wednesday off that I'd grown so used to in the past. I learned that I could handle the traditional 9-5 (or, as the case may be for my hopeful future, 10-6) without getting bored by routine.
I, of course, also learned that working in public radio is nothing like running your own archery program for children, but that goes without saying.
I still have to be at work tomorrow at 2p, but I'll still probably wake up at 8 and leave my apartment at 9, turning off my radio right after the on-air personality says, "It's 1-and-a-half minutes before 9 o'clock and you're listening to the Takeaway on WNYC AM 820."
I'm just not sure where to go...
Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday of Freshman year, I went into the same little storefront and got a lemon Snapple and paid exact change ($1.25) for it. My routine was so well-known that, by the end of the year, as I walked in, Abdul (the proprietor) was reaching into his fridge to get the Snapple as I was walking in. (This regular-ness also was beneficial when I went in the one and only time I did not have exact change. He could not break my $20 and said, "Don't worry about it; You'll pay me on Tuesday." (I, of course, did. In fact, when I paid him, he'd forgotten and said, 'What's this for?' 'Friday.' I mean, sure a free Snapple would have been nice, but $1.25 was already cheaper than any other place around...)
I take the same path to walk to the Subway every morning.
I hit Snooze the same number of times every morning -- whether I need to or not. (This one's a little weird, yes...but let's take Friday: I hit Snooze and then got out of bed. The alarm going off is how I gauge how long I have until I have to leave.)
Where was I going with this post...
Oh yeah; routine.
Today was my last day of jury duty, and I'm going to miss that routine. The entire month of January (and today), I had jury duty from 10a-1p and work from 2p-6p. The daily routine was something I really enjoyed and could handle quite easily. It was much less stressful than the hectic 12-hour Tuesdays with Wednesday off that I'd grown so used to in the past. I learned that I could handle the traditional 9-5 (or, as the case may be for my hopeful future, 10-6) without getting bored by routine.
I, of course, also learned that working in public radio is nothing like running your own archery program for children, but that goes without saying.
I still have to be at work tomorrow at 2p, but I'll still probably wake up at 8 and leave my apartment at 9, turning off my radio right after the on-air personality says, "It's 1-and-a-half minutes before 9 o'clock and you're listening to the Takeaway on WNYC AM 820."
I'm just not sure where to go...
Monday, February 2, 2009
Death
I know...uplifting topic.
I meant to write about this a couple, three weeks ago, but I a) never got around to it, and 2) wasn't quite sure I was ready to.
I had a really fascinating 24-hour span of death-related occurrences in life. I don't want to discuss the first half of my back-to-back evening of the deceased, but the back end was fascinating and uplifting.
I went to a memorial concert for Dick Sudhalter, Newton, MA native, jazz musician, author, historian, and more than anything, respected man. I'd read a few articles he'd written and parts of a book he'd written without actually knowing who he was, but a number of my teachers were playing at his memorial and sent out mass emails, causing me to decide to put on my blazer and leave my apartment on a chilly Monday night.
Anyone who did not know Sudhalter, or Dick, as after this event I feel I knew him such to be on a first-name basis, could see how well-respected he was without ever hearing a single word of tribute just by looking at the lineup of people playing. (Ranging from Bill Kirchner and Sy Johnson, teachers of mine, to scholars and musicians in his vein such as Loren Schoenberg, to legends Marian McPartland, Bill Crow, and many others.
The community formed around this man and his work was an amazing and uplifting experience -- especially in contrast to the tragic passing I had to deal with the day before. It was a very healthy look at mortality. And more so, it made me realize how important community is.
The entire jazz community in nearly the entire northeast rallied around one another with the love of a family.
However peripherally, I'm proud to be part of this community. I hope life affords me the chance to stay a part of it for a very long time.
I meant to write about this a couple, three weeks ago, but I a) never got around to it, and 2) wasn't quite sure I was ready to.
I had a really fascinating 24-hour span of death-related occurrences in life. I don't want to discuss the first half of my back-to-back evening of the deceased, but the back end was fascinating and uplifting.
I went to a memorial concert for Dick Sudhalter, Newton, MA native, jazz musician, author, historian, and more than anything, respected man. I'd read a few articles he'd written and parts of a book he'd written without actually knowing who he was, but a number of my teachers were playing at his memorial and sent out mass emails, causing me to decide to put on my blazer and leave my apartment on a chilly Monday night.
Anyone who did not know Sudhalter, or Dick, as after this event I feel I knew him such to be on a first-name basis, could see how well-respected he was without ever hearing a single word of tribute just by looking at the lineup of people playing. (Ranging from Bill Kirchner and Sy Johnson, teachers of mine, to scholars and musicians in his vein such as Loren Schoenberg, to legends Marian McPartland, Bill Crow, and many others.
The community formed around this man and his work was an amazing and uplifting experience -- especially in contrast to the tragic passing I had to deal with the day before. It was a very healthy look at mortality. And more so, it made me realize how important community is.
The entire jazz community in nearly the entire northeast rallied around one another with the love of a family.
However peripherally, I'm proud to be part of this community. I hope life affords me the chance to stay a part of it for a very long time.
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