Reclassification

A phony letter for the end of the week

There’s half an hour remaining until I can leave work and nothing for me to do, so I’ve decided to blog undercover.  If I were to type this post out in my web browser, it would be a dead giveaway to anyone walking by my desk, so I’ve begun writing this post in a Word document with a fake salutation at the top.  From a distance it appears I am writing a letter to a client:  “Dear Mr. Rosewater, / I hope this letter finds you well.”  

This probably goes without saying, but there is no Mr. Rosewater.

I do take great pride in the real correspondence that I send as a part of my job.  In fact, if there’s one skill I truly believe I bring to this work, it’s my ability to communicate clearly, whether that be via email, letter, or telephone.  I’m partial to letters, though.  If I were to write a book, I would really like it to take the form of an epistolary novel.  

The epistolary novel is a literary form that uses correspondence to tell the story.  One of my favorite examples is Dracula.  That book has an amazing amount of suspense in part because of its use of letters (and the brilliant incorporation of newspaper stories and the captain’s log from a ship found at sea) that provide a certain intimacy which might otherwise be missing.  

In the 21^st century, we have several new forms of “letters,” from text messages to emails, chat session to blogs, which make handwritten correspondence all the more romanticized.  David Brooks summed up the stakes of technological innovation in a recent column, which posits the impact of text messaging on what he calls “courtship” and other social behaviors.  And while texting could have all the negative impacts that he postulates (and while I generally feel that it will continue to erode the importance of grammar in our society), perhaps there is room for text messages, blogs, and other mediums in a new kind of epistolary novel—one which unravels in the myriad of ways in which we communicate with one another.

That’s all I’ve got for now—it’s just about time for me to go home.  Happy Friday from me and Mr. Rosewater. 

Three iterations of Beethoven’s Fifth

In an effort to combine two of my passions, I have chosen to do my final project for my Advanced Cataloging class on “Music Cataloging.”  The opportunity to do an independent project for thisfinal offers both a blessing and poses a great challenge: The blessing is that not only will I be cataloging a large number of items (something that I am particularly interested in as a possible career), but I will be cataloging things that I am passionate about: CDs, sheet music, books about music, etc.  And what’s the challenge, you ask?  This is time consuming stuff.  As if the rules for cataloging books weren’t rigid enough, cataloging music has its own set of unique was of forming uniform titles, bibliographic descriptors, call numbers, and the like.

Here’s what interests me about a project like this: Say I have a piece of sheet music in front of me, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, Op. 67.  And say that sitting right next to a photocopy of the score is a copy of a CD by the Wiener Philharmoniker, conducted by Wilhelm Furtwangler, performing the 5th Symphony.  Finally, say I have a copy of Hector Berlioz’s essay on the Symphonies of Beethoven.  The way we catalog these three, and the exactness with which we describe this particular artistic expression (in either print or audio form, including a work of criticism), will determine the ability to which a person searching in the library catalog will be able to make the connection between the three.  Good cataloging can draw out the intellectual content of an item and make it discoverable.  A person looking for a recording of the 5th may have never heard of Berlioz’s essay.  But if it were to come up alongside the CD in their catalog search results, a new perspective of the 5th Symphony could be elucidated.  The Berlioz essay, which they may never find if it’s not properly cataloged, could change the individual’s experience of hearing the 5th.  We as catalogers need to be able to make those connections, to help people make discoveries across different mediums and collocate different approaches to the same artistic/intellectual “item.” 

Flying first class

Earlier this fall, Sufjan Stevens brought his touring band to town, playing a small show at a favorite club of mine.  The day that tickets went on sale I found myself in a predicament: I knew that I would be busy at noon when the online queue for taking ticket orders would open up.  In an act of forethought, I wrote down my credit card number and expiration date for Jenny to use to buy tickets the instant they went on sale.  Much to my dismay, the tickets sold out instantly, even though Jenny was on the website right as it opened.

Sufjan’s touring schedule has been sparse the last few years, and the near-miss made me feel despondent.  The pace at which he’s been recording new albums had slowed considerably, and I thought this one-off show could be my last chance to catch him—that maybe he was going to give up touring for good.

Fast-forward to last Wednesday:  I am on a local theater’s website, browsing their upcoming events, when I see that the next day — Thursday, October 29 — Sufjan Stevens is scheduled to present his multimedia piece, The BQE!  The BQE, a work written for a 30-piece orchestra and accompanied by three simultaneous projections of super-8 footage, is something I had been interested in seeing.  To have the chance to see it in a theater setting (as opposed to on DVD at home), and to have Sufjan introduce it, seemed like a rare opportunity.  What’s more, a talented string quartet, Osso, was going to perform selections by Stevens arranged for them by several contemporary composers, including Nico Muhly.  And the show would be opened by a singer-songwriter, DM Stith.

In all, it seemed like an evening of great variety and incredible talent.  And did I mention SUFJAN would be on hand to introduce each act and talk about the music?!?!   Needless to say, I immediately clicked on the “tickets” button on the Southern Theater’s website, only to have this message appear on my screen:  All tickets for this event are sold out.  Please contact the Box Office.  Another near-miss, I thought. I called the box office anyway, and got better-than-expected news: they were taking names for a waiting list.  I put my name down and gave them a phone number ot contact me if any tickets freed up.

By the time I got to work on Thursday, I had given up hope that I would see this event.  The odds just seemed too slim, and the universe seemed Hellbent on keeping me from ever seeing Mr. Stevens in the flesh.  At three o’clock, however, my phone wrang.  I didn’t recognize the number, and I let the call roll to voicemail.  A minute later, my phone told me that I had a message.  Hi, this is a message for Michael.  We’re calling to let you know that a ticket has opened up for tonight’s performance.  Please call us to claim it.

I called the theater, and was told to be there an hour before show time to claim my ticket.  I had to pay in advance, and after providing my credit card info., they again stressed that I should get there early.

By 6:35, I was in the lobby of the Southern, fumbling through my pockets for the confirmation email that I had recieved.  The woman at the desk looked at the name on the piece of paper and rifled carefully through the Will Call tickets.  My name wasn’t on any of them.  She looked again, and finally turned to ask someone else for help.  The second employee looked at my confirmation, and then walked to a different stack of tickets.

Your seats aren’t actually seats we would normally have available, so they were in a different pile, she explained.  The Theater had added an additional row of folding chairs to accomodate the demand for tonight’s show.  So when you enter the theater, you’ll see the row of chairs.  Just count in seven seats from your left, and that’s where your seat will be.  They’re not marked.

Are these seats in the back of the theater, I asked?

We didn’t have room in the back of the theater, she explained.  The only place to put the additional seating was in the front.  The row of chairs that I would be sitting in was in front of the front row of the regular theater seating.

I couldn’t believe it.  The best metaphor I can find is to say that I am a passenger who had been flying standby, only to get a ticket in first class as the plane was boarding.  It was magical, and the music that evening sounded even better than it would have under normal circumstances.

Oh, and Sufjan was on hand.  Compared to the thrill of hearing Mr. Stith’s guitar and the string instruments of Osso a mere feet in front of me, however, it was only a minor joy to hear him speak.

Timing!

I opened up the NYT book section today and read this excerpt of a memoir about cooking: ”A lifelong interest in recreating the cuisine of my childhood is proof of the persistence of memory and its power to shape one’s days,” he writes. He adds, “The lakes and dark forests of Maine are the default landscape of my soul.”

This single sentence is so much more articulate than my previous post could ever hope to be!

uncanny cooking

Lately I’ve been cooking a lot of the recipes that my mom prepared during my childhood.  I’ve loved cooking ever since I was in college, but prior to that I largely took for granted the preparation of my food.  Now I feel as though I’m calling my mom once a week to ask, “Did you use sage in this dish?” or “Don’t you feel that this recipe could use more cumin?”

Being the person who regularly prepares the meals in a household is an adventure and a burden.  I feel a lot of guilt if the dish doesn’t turn out the way I want it to, if the rice is too dry, or if what I make fails to satisfy a picky eater. At the same time, it’s so great to pull together the raw ingredients to create a nourishing meal. It’s fun to take a chance, to wander from the recipe, or to cook something untested for the first time.

For a long time, I stuck to a few key recipes and made them with great faithfulness and regularity.  Now I’m branching out, not just into new recipes, but also deeper into the menu of my childhood.  My role has changed, from the kid sitting at the table waiting for his dinner, to the person bringing the plates out. I have a newfound respect for my mom, not only for the amazing flavors of just about everything she’s ever cooked, but also for the hard work it took to prepare those meals.

The dishes have become recontextualized.  The kitchen is not the one I grew up with, the cook is different, and I’m seeing my food from the other side.  My spice rack will continue to grow, I’ll upgrade my kitchenware, and I’ll keep trying new recipes, but the foundations of my culinary practices are deeply rooted in the familiar tastes and aromas of my childhood home. The dishes will always bear an uncanny quality: they are ostensibly the same as those made by my mother, and yet inexplicably made different by my new relationship to them.

thx for clarifying

I’m glad that someone finally asked Kurt Vile’s parents about whether or not their son’s name has anything to do with Kurt Weill.  It turns out that it’s a coincidence. 

Music that moves and movements set to music

My fiance and I tried something new on Thursday: we saw a performance by a modern ballet company.  As much as I love the performing arts, I had never given dance (and particularly modern dance) a fair shake.  I always kind of assumed that it wasn’t for me.  While I find music and theater to be among the most incredible forms of artistic expression, dance seemed somehow inaccessible (perhaps because I lack the gift of coordinated movement!).

Anyway, we had the opportunity to see the James Sewell Ballet Company last week at a reasonable price.  What’s more, they were performing a new work choreographed to some previously-unreleased tracks by The Bad Plus!  This definitely sweetened the deal, and I called my fiance on Tuesday to inform her that I was buying tickets, and that I was apologizing in advance if if turned out to be really weird.

Not knowing what to expect, Jenny and I went to our first ballet performance, complete with leotards, feats of impossible-looking movement, and a reverent audience.  The well-chosen music definitely enhanced the experience, and the idea of people dancing to music like The Bad Plus definitely challenged me to see that group in a new way.  While their music definitely moves, I hadn’t really thought of it as being music to move to.

Oh, and I should also mention that one of these songs rocked harder than anything I’ve ever heard in my life.  The chunky piano chords, the syncopation, and Dave King playing a beat that made Bill Ward’s drumming sound positively dainty by comparison.

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m joyously doing nothing.  After what has felt like months of non-stop activity on both weekdays and weekends, I see some normalcy returning to my life.  The house that I now live in feels comfortable (three weeks after moving in), and the weather, though cold, reminds me that fall and winter are better than most people give them credit for.

I’ve tried to start blogging on this site twice since September, but each time I found myself writing these huge posts about nothing in particular.  I spent all of this time trying to talk about the intent of  this blog, and in the process, I started to take it to seriously.  While it will be fun to post my thoughts, I don’t need to put any unnecessary pressure on these entries—they don’t need to solve anyone’s problems or say anything profound.

Without further ado, I present ‘reclassification,’ a blog dedicated (I hope) to examining things in new contexts.