Two

I'm reading a few things currently. I like to try to balance non-fiction reading (vegetables) with fiction (sorbet...is it weird that I think of my reading habits as a vegan-like responsibility?). The thing is, I do really like vegetables. And non-fiction. Reading works of non-fiction make me want to write, and reading fiction makes me want to read more fiction. Consequently, it comes as no surprise that I prefer reading the genre that spurs me to create.

I'm currently working my way through David Foster Wallace's "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again." I say I'm working through it because it is, indeed, a bit of work. The first essay, Derivative Sport in Tornado Alley, mostly chronicles the author's tennis career that almost was, battling wind, adolescent awkwardness, and pushing the limits of his audience's capacity for math reading:
         "Unless you're one of those rare mutant virtuosos of raw force, you'll find that competitive tennis, like money pool, requires geometric thinking, the ability to calculate not merely your own angles but the angles of response to your angles. Because the expansion of response-possibilities is quadratic, you are required to think n shots ahead, where n is a hyperbolic function limited by the sinh of opponent's talent and the cosh of the number of shots in the rally so far(roughly)."

The second essay, E UNIBUS PLURAM: television and U.S. fiction, deals with an "existentiovoyeuristic" conundrum, namely about how television presents the illusion of voyeurism and how fiction writers can be inspired by this as a source material, though that, in the end, is somewhat of a false prophecy as true human experience does not really happen on television.  It's hard to believe this was written in the early 1990s, and certainly is an interesting idea post-advent for reality television.  I love this essay, and certain bits about the self-hating TV watcher and critic hit a little too close to home (we spend an awful lot of time with television, and there are, truthfully, many things we hate about what we watch, even if we don't realize it).  A favorite excerpt, on the topic of syndication:
         "Sunday-morning syndication is also intriguing because it makes for juxtapositions as eerily apposite as anything French surrealists could come up with.  Lovable warlocks on Bewitched and commercially Satanic heavy-metal videos on Top Ten Countdown run opposite air-brushed preachers decrying demonism in U.S. culture.  You can surf back and forth between a televised mass's "This is my blood" and Gladiators' Zap breaking a civilian's nose with a polyurethane Bataka."

Overall, I love his style, and can't wait to get into more of DFW's fiction writing.  He has a unique observational skill that, while present in many writers and comedians, not only captures an image, but processes it and develops it through an unusual lens.  Sometimes, for Wallace, that lens is math, sometimes it is being a fiction writer, and sometimes it's just plain absurd.

Next time, dessert. I'm finally reading Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451.  I know, right?

One

I'm a chronic blog abandoner, journal abondoner, and project-starter. These traits join forces to create the perfect storm of flakiness. A veritable dandruff tornado, if you will, and of course you will, because what choice have you got but to picture that? I baked some muffins today, and I think that was a good thing. I practiced my instruments today, and I'd have to say that was also a good thing. In a few minutes, I'm going to go shower, dress myself in the oppressively required uniform, and teach kids how to be interested in music.

I say that because really, none of these kids want to be professional musicians. Who would? Ok, besides me. Ok besides all of my friends who may read this who are. The tough thing in the last couple of weeks has been keeping them interested in music. Listening to only Taylor Swift as your only musical source is probably something to be addressed. Playing your instrument only in band is also something to be addressed. If that were me, I'd not really give a shit about what happens in my private lessons. Hell, I listen to more music (for better or for worse) than most of you (I assume...I don't know who you are. I think I'm addressing my mental list of Facebook friends or something), and I didn't give a shit what went on in most of my private lessons. What I'm coming to is the realization that it's too late for me to go back and make myself care. It's too late for me to go back and write with the aptitude that I do now (this doesn't count). I can't go around apologizing to all of my teachers for being a slacker and not respecting their time, though now much of what I was supposed to have learned I am now, and I'm benefiting from years of instruction being bottled up somewhere in the reptilian part of my brain.

The best thing for me is teaching. Teaching and learning are like...well I'm at a loss for a creative metaphor. I write essays, not fiction. What I do know is that one informs the other, and that's a pretty obvious statement that centuries of philosophy have already ironed out, as they have with most of the things that I am just beginning to learn in my life. Teaching, though, is its own way of learning. It forces me to confront the things that I have supposedly learn, find the parts of those things that work, the parts that don't work, and decide how to convey that information to my students. Also, I have found in recent years that my tendency is to be selfish and self-contained. Teaching treats this as well. So does reading books. So does genuinely trying to help people, whether it's with finding a book, opening a door, or pretending that you care about what they have to say (fake it 'til you make it).

Suggested diet: Teach somebody something, watch a documentary, and listen to this.