the need for discourse

Recently, I found myself discussing with a third party a friendship that I have with somebody whose political views are very different from my own. I can't remember my exact phrasing, but after describing how much I liked this person, I added the caveat-- "... oh, but we don't discuss politics." Along these lines, an unabashedly liberal friend was recently explaining to me that she doesn't interact much with 'hard core conservatives', because it only serves to frustrate her. We were both, I suspect, employing exaggeration. Nevertheless, there is some truth behind these statements, and I find it troubling.

At a very basic level, surrounding ourselves with only like-minded people seems antithetical to personal growth and to having an open, evolving mind. Engaging, earnestly and sincerely, with those who disagree with us allows us to see things from different perspectives, learn about the limits and problems with our views, and occassionally change our opinions. In other cases, our views can be made richer and stronger by having actively worked through challenges to them.

It's hardly a contentious notion that one will have more thoughtful, well informed ideas if one interacts with people with whom one disagrees. Nor is it particularly contentious that our ideas are more likely to stagnate if we surround ourselves with people who share our points of view. This feels intellectually lazy and unproductive. In his new book, Going To Extremes, Cass Sunstein argues that the threat posed by intellectual self segregation is actually much worse than this. Drawing on real world examples, and on studies in behavioural and social psychology, he makes the following point: when a group of like minded people engage in discussion on an issue about which they generally agree, the group will usually end up coming to a stronger, more extreme view than the average individual came into the discussion with. This makes sense, when we consider that one is likely to hear new arguments that support the same basic view, and have his own arguments reinforced. In the absence of credible challenges to the group's prevailing point of view, indivuals are likely to get an inflated sense that their view is 'right', and this, I think, is a dangerous thing.

I first considered the notion of mob mentality studying To Kill a Mockingbird in high school English. While probably an extreme example, there is a parallel. It does feel like we're embracing an intellectual 'mob mentality' when we choose to close ourselves off from people with differing views. Lost in a crowd of the like-minded, we can dispense with the inconvenience of questioning our positions. Inevitably, this will cause us to make decisions that are not warranted on merit.

College facilitated this discourse in a unique way. First and foremost, I spent four years living in close quarters with people from a wide variety of backrounds and ideological perspectives. Many of these people became close friends, and inevitably, many of them were different from me. Beyond this, the notion of classwork explicitly encourages this kind of discourse. Students are made, formally and informally, to challenge their views and defend them with rigour. In a post-college life, it is much harder to facilitate this discourse. The classwork is gone, and we interact with far fewer people on a day to day basis. Moreover, we naturally tend to socialize with people with similar perspectives. Freed from assigned coursework, we choose to read books that reinforce our views.

So what are the solutions? Public spaces and public forums can help. It is an unfortunate paradox that developed societies like ours, with such emphasis on free speech, tend to be so fixated on private life. Some of it comes down to us as individuals. We need to make the decision to cultivate relationships with people who disagree with us, to read books that challenge our beliefs, to engage in active public intellectualism. We'll all benefit from leaving our comfort zones.

Easier said than done.

mj

r.i.p.

doing good and doing well

When I was in high school, our principal would often claim that the school intended to educate boys capable of "doing good and doing well." I always regarded the phrase cynically, as a sort of moral tax paid by an institution with a long history of privileged alumni doing well. In retrospect, the dedication of our faculty to instilling this notion clearer to me than it was at the time. In any case, we heard the phrase often enough to not ever give it serious thought, or consider its implications on our own lives.

Societal barometers for success seem heavily tilted towards the doing well, as opposed to doing good. Even the simple phrase "(s)he has been very successful" implies financial success. While we do often celebrate people who make major, public impacts in public service, we don't necessarily appreciate the people working in public service every day without making the news. In the US, the emphasis on doing well is made all the more salient by the fact that so many politicians come from business backgrounds, and are held fairly captive by corporate interests. There is often a subtext that a business background somehow makes a politician more credible on account of their 'real world experience.' Implicit here is the idea that working for the public good is less 'real.'

Is there an expectation that educated, intelligent people ought to use their ability to enrich themselves? From another perspective, when thoughtful people make the decision to 'earn a good living', are they falling short of a moral standard? Perhaps one's ambition should be to focus on contributing positively to the world, rather than on doing well for one's self. Cynics cite examples like those of Bill Gates and of Warren Buffett. These are people who, because of their vast financial success, have been able to do far more good than if they'd dedicated their lives initially to "doing good." Still, these are obvious outliers, and it seems dubious to build an argument from them. Ultimately, people need to make a choice about how to spend their lives, and it ought to be something that is personally meaningful.

I've wondered myself whether I should be doing more to improve the world I live in. On the other hand, while it may be an admirable thing for people to dedicate their lives to public service, maybe it's enough to engage with these issues as a citizen, even if it isn't the focus of your work and livelihood. The reality is that those working for most non-profit institutions, teachers, often struggle to make ends meet. The challenge is even more daunting when one thinks about having a family. So it could be unreasonable to expect everybody to think about doing good in their career-- certainly, I think it is a step too far to call it any kind of moral obligation.

Still, I think doing good ought to enter the decision process, and this demands that we change the way we think about success. Meaning and purpose are important, and I've been thinking about these issues with respect to my own career decisions, past and future. I'd encourage you to do the same--

melanin vignette

Georgia Anne Muldrow is a neo-soul / r&b / hip hop artist from LA . She creates some very cool pieces that are on balance very dense and layered. Many of her songs are short and concentrated, rapidly introducing and exploring a single auditory theme or idea. Vignettes of songs.

LIsten to this one and let me know what you think--

the sound of silence

Person A: “I love the Paris metro.”
NKW: “Paris METRO.”

Person B: “The UN building is one of my favorite places in the city.”
NKW: “Ah yes, the UN building.”

It is a peculiar habit of mine to repeat phrases and words when I hear them spoken to me. Recently, a friend pointed this bizarre habit out to me and thought it was funny. I’ve been vaguely aware of my tendency to do this, but haven’t really thought about where it might come from or what it might mean before. I have some ideas.

At a very basic (and mostly subconscious) level, I think I use this device as a way to fill perceived voids in conversation. When I am with most people, silence makes me uncomfortable, and I think this is a reaction to that discomfort. The action is akin to nervous rambling—another occasional tendency of mine. I think this discomfort stems from some very fundamental and important questions.

Am I connecting with this person?
Am I interesting?
Do I have anything meaningful to contribute to the dialogue?
Are we engaging one another?
…

The irony is that thoughtless repetition of a simple phrase is meaningless, and doesn't constitute any sort of engagement with or connection to the other person. While this is apparent on reflection, I think the tendency comes from a reflexive place rather than a thoughtful one, and is much like a nervous tic. In particular, I think this urge is strong when I am drawn to somebody on an instinctive, primal level that I may not fully grasp. In this case, there is a subconscious desire to justify this pull ex-post-facto on more traditionally 'rational' grounds such as an explicit intellectual connection or a shared interest.

This effort to synthesize meaning is itself probably misguided. Tangible connections to others cannot be fabricated, and even if they can be encouraged, the mindless repetition of a simple phrase certainly doesn't advance this goal. Obliquely, this also brings to mind the notion that we often listen to others with an intention of crafting our response. Instead, we should really try to hear the other person. In this way, accepting silence can enhance conversation.

It takes some fortitutde to acknowledge that one might simply have little to share with somebody on a given topic, and it takes faith to realize that this is OK. Perhaps we ought to simply enjoy being with people, and listening to people. After all, can language even begin to describe the nature of human connection?

.

the live show

Last night, I had the pleasure of seeing Grizzly Bear live in concert at Town Hall. Wow. This was one of those special shows that reminds us why we need the performance arts. It was easily one of the best concerts I've ever seen; the band was phenomenally successful musically, visually and atmospherically. If anybody is thinking about seeing Grizzly Bear on this tour, do it. I promise you will not regret it.

What the band did really well was strike a balance between mixing up the presentation of some of their songs, and leaving others much closer to the recorded versions. Beyond that, they were technically mangnificent and the sounds left me breathless. Such beautiful voices! I literally got the chills. It was also neat to hear some of the songs accompanied by the live youth choir that sang with the band on Veckatimest. The lighting was also fantastic-- it complemented the songs effectively, and was not overbearing as concert lights sometimes are. This was a welcome change after I was nearly blinded by the strobe lights at the Roots' Highline Ballroom show last week.

Live music really is something special. This is sometimes lost, I think, as we now find ourselves overwhelmed with recorded material. Music is best enjoyed as a communal experience, as a connection between musicians and audience. I always get that happy nervous energy in the pit of my stomach while I'm waiting for a concert to start. A few minutes into the show, I feel a sort of warm bliss inside that no other experience can evoke. Last night was no exception.

Thank you, Grizzly Bear!

aesthetics of consumption

A few weeks ago, a friend sent me a link to the video above. When I watched the video at home that night, I was struck by its beauty, and by the extent to which I was held captive to the power of effective advertisement. Porsche designs and builds breathtaking automobiles, and many people have spent time dreaming about owning or driving one. I count myself in this group. Still, the reality is that a 911 is prohibitively expensive and most people will never be able to own one. The advertisement glorifies an extreme, oppulent sort of materialism that will ultimately leave most people unsatisfied due to their inability to actually attain the dream. The gentle piano, the quiet confidence of the boy, and the friendliness of the sales agent all perpetuate a profoundly false sense of inevitability to the situation. We are asked to understand that the boy will buy a Porsche later in life. As if will and persistence are somehow all that it takes.

At the same time, we don't need to subscribe to any particular notion of socioeconomic reality to appreciate the quality of a Porsche 911. While it is clearly excessive to describe a car as "quite simply the purest expression of who we are", the company can hardly said to be doing wrong by celebrating their work. It would be difficult to argue that there is some moral shortcoming in trying to design a high end product. There are real and obvious problems in a society focussed to much on materialism. Nevertheless, few would try to make the claim that 'nice things' are inherently bad. So why do I feel ambivalent about the advertisement? Why as though I've been manipulated in an intimate way? Perhaps this speaks to my own personal internal struggles with the morality of materalism.

The elephant in the room is that substantive discussions aside, the video is beautiful. Like the automobile, the advertisement has been meticulously designed both aesthetically and functionally (it's pretty and it works). It works because it evokes passions, longings and memories that many can relate to. The friend who sent me the video says that it "captures all of the feelings I have for that car and my dreams." Such innocence! The writing, direction and production of the commercial are superb, and allow us to suspend notions of reality that could detract from the point: you want this car. And even if I decide that I don't want this car, I think I still want to watch the video.

At the end of the day, isn't the video itself a valuable work of art?

backgammon

I first discovered Backgammon while traveling in Turkey and Greece with Rob, JB and Jamal after graduation. We would see people playing at all hours of the day while drinking coffee, smoking nargile, or just hanging out. Needless to say, it didn't take us long to start playing, and the game began a large part of our trip. The game is conducive to easy play peppered with the sort of conversation that brings people together, and seems somehow appropriate to the Mediterranean climate and aesthetic.

Since that trip I've always kept a board at home: currently two. Nevertheless, until a few days ago, I hadn't played in some time. I pulled out the board and played a few games with Nico on Sunday afternoon. It was a nice reminder of the reasons that I came to love the game originally. Nico aptly characterized the game as having the right balance of luck and skill for most people to enjoy it easily and quickly. Strategy plays a big role, and a strong player will usually beat a weaker player. Still, the luck of the dice is exciting (friends call me The Cooler), and in my experience, most players have at least a shot of winning against most other players.

While cerebral games like Go and Chess have gained cult popularity in recent years, casual board games are an institution that seem to have lost some prominence in our culture. I find this unfortunate. Backgammon, and games like it, serve as wonderful backdrops to conversation. Above all, I see them as a way to interact with people. A way to mute the occasional silences that can otherwise make conversation seem stilted or awkward. I've grown closer to my friends playing backgammon. I've also gotten over silly arguments with friends, and acknowledged as much implicitly with a simple "want to play a game of backgammon?" Games like backgammon let us relax and just be with people who matter to us.

Another issue that I've been thinking about lately is that of public spaces and community. In this sense, as well, games like Backgammon can aid in local engagement (particularly when the weather is nice). Backgammon provides a social means for spending long periods of time with a friend or friends in a public space. More to the point, playing in public spaces is a way to acknowledge the a shared sense of community with those around you. Seeing two people playing backgammon has a friendly aesthetic. The image is an inviting one, so playing in public spaces can also be a nice way to meet new people.

Anybody up for a game?

teachers

A friend sent me this video, and I really enjoyed it--

food for thought

I spent much of yesterday at the Brooklyn Food Conference in Park Slope. This was an event that I'd been looking forward to for some time, and it was fantastic. According to the New York Times, there may have been as many as three thousand people in attendance, and this gives credence to the credibility and momentum that the sustainable food movement is gaining. Food is a big issue, and one that I am spending an increasing amount of energy thinking about. We need to demand a food system that is environmentally sustainable, healthy and just. The unfortunate reality is that we have nothing of the sort right now. The wide variety of people showing interest in this issue gives much reason for hope.

I really enjoyed attending a workshop about milk, which had a panel consisting of an expert in the history of milk, a raw (unpasteurized) milk advocate, and some farmers. The woman from the raw milk advocacy group seemed blinded by bias, and betrayed little understanding of basic statistics. This, coupled with her unwillingness to consider challenges to her generally unsupported claims, unfortunately detracted from any credibility in her perspective. The other panelists, however, were quite good and I have actually decided to start drinking milk from local farms where the cows are predominantly grass-fed. The consensus also seemed to be that while milk is very good for you, it is not necessary in the way that many of us in North America have been led to believe. Another fact that surprised me was the uniform claim from the panelists that whole milk is healthier than skimmed milk. Nevertheless, I think I'll keep drinking skim, because whole milk is just too thick for me to drink!

Another great panel was "Race and the Food System," in which the panelists talked about the lack of access to healthy food in minority communities, and the epidemic of health problems that result from this. It was encouraging to see that there are concrete steps being taken at the grassroots level in New York to address these disparities. Karen Washington spoke about her experiences bringing a farmer's market to her community in the Bronx, and Bob Law was extremely eloquent, thoughtful and direct in linking the food system to broader issues of social justice. One idea of his that has really had me thinking is that our system of social support is focused on normalizing poverty and making (disproportionately minority) people comfortable with it. Instead, we should be focussed on programs that bring people out of poverty.

All in all, a wonderful day. I was encouraged by the number of people who seem committed to reforming our food systems, and really benefited from hearing quality discourse on important issues.

growing up the son of dogman

My father has a gift when it comes to dogs. Over the course of his childhood in Punjab, he had no fewer than fourteen different dogs. Somehow dogs always seem to sense this, even though he hasn't had a dog since moving to Canada in 1972. I've always been envious of the way dogs are drawn to my father, and have always been amazed at the way they soften to his petting. In recent years, I've taken to referring to him as 'the dogman' when I tell people about his canine talent.

One unfortunate consequence of growing up in full knowledge of my father's former life with the dogs was that my brother, sister and I grew up with the constant (unfulfilled) hope that a new puppy was imminent. My mother has always been opposed to the idea of having a dog. She worried about the smell, the cleaning, and most of all that she'd grow too attached and lose the dog at some point. This typically ended any episode of dog-seeking on our part. Still, I can't count the number of times we convinced ourselves that it would happen. We'd visit the pet store and pick out a particular puppy we really liked. Following this, we'd have our father try to convince our mother while the three of us would have conversations that usually ended in phrases like "yeah, an electric fence is definitely the way to go", or "I'll do the walking, and you can handle the bathing." My parents always led us to the brink of belief; I think they believed it would happen too; but always, near the end, Mom would come in and call the plan off, and we'd all abandon hope. Until the next time. I think my father shared accutely in the sense of disappointment my brother, sister and I shared.

My father's dogman powers sometimes seem supernatural. When we walk down the street, I can almost see the way dogs are physically drawn to him. I have seen him subdue all manner of dogs, from German Sheppards to Labradors to Saint Bernards. All pant excitedly upon seeing him. Particularly telling is how my father interacts with my cousin's dog Buddy. Buddy is a strong, vicious, angry black guard dog in Panchkula. This is an animal that growls, barks and tugs its chain at the sight of most anybody but his owner. His name notwithstanding, Buddy is not a friendly dog. Within five minutes of setting foot in their house, my father was playfighting with Buddy, and a few minutes later, Buddy was anxiously lying on his back while my father pet his stomach. Everybody was amazed. Over the next few weeks, Buddy would bark happily at the sight of my father, and my father was always on hand to entertain.

When I arrived at the house a couple of weeks later, the dog growled at me ominously. Still, a few hours later, he semed quiet. I cautiously approached Buddy, hoping to convert his quietness into perhaps a nice pet on the head. I remember thinking "I'm the son of dogman, I'm meant for this", as I got closer and closer to Buddy. After all, my father had tamed Buddy, and I am very much my father's son. Surely, Buddy's sixth animal sense could tell that I was no ordinary stranger. His silence proved it! Suffice it to say, Buddy's mood abruptly changed and I jumped three feet back to avoid a sharp bite on my leg by only inches. I heard his teeth smack hard. I guess there's only room enough in this family for one dogman.

goodbye solo

*** warning. if you intend to see this movie, and do not want any plot details revealed, please do not read this post. ***
Last night at the Angelika, I saw a beautiful film called Goodbye Solo. The movie follows a short-lived relationship between a taxi driver named Solo, and a man named William who has decided to take his own life (trailer here). For those of you considering the film, I highly recommend it.

When I stepped out of the theatre, I struggled over whether I thought the movie was uplifting or depressing. What I realized (with the help of some friends), is that the story is defined most of all by its realness, and that the quiet sense of the inevitable resolution and the inescapable motion of life make these “uplifting / depressing” dichotomies untenable. Solo was unable to change William’s mind, but should we take that to mean that no meaningful connection was forged between the two? On the contrary, I’m left with reinforcement of the notion that we don’t need to agree to coexist. Accepting other points of view and notions of personal circumstance is paramount. I think Solo ultimately came to the conclusion that conceding defeat in changing William’s mind was a way of respecting his humanity.

Again, I think what is most moving is the realism of the plot and the characters. The filmmaker, Ramin Bahrani, takes pains to steer clear of clichéd sentimentalism and presents layered, believable characters. Solo avoids falling prey to the “jolly African man” stereotype. While his relentless optimism is magnetic and profoundly lightening, there is pathos in seeing that he cannot always smile at the myriad ways that his life has failed him. In this respect, the extent to which Solo and William share similar circumstances but completely different ways of addressing them is illuminated. The dialogue, the problems, the interactions, all of this felt genuine and believable.

The cinematography was stunning as well. A friend compared the film to No Country For Old Men, and while I initially failed to see the connection, the aesthetic similarities have become more apparent to me. The slow, wide shots of landscape ground the film in the physical North Carolina terrain. I have little analysis to offer here, except to note that it was very beautiful to watch.

One aspect of the film that I find striking is the absence of a soundtrack. Here as well, the aesthetic is similar to that of No Country For Old Men, where (wonderfully mastered) sounds take a prominent role in developing atmosphere. The only music we hear in Goodbye Solo comes from the radio in the taxi and from the bar where William and Solo spend time. The decision not to include a score hearkens back to the idea that the movie is dedicated to realism, and that Bahrani clearly has an interest in avoiding formulaic or trite constructions; his is an approach that places a premium on authenticity. Music is used heavily in most films to guide the emotions of the viewer and create tension. Paradoxically, the absence of a score is tremendously effective in building tension in Goodbye Solo. As William and Solo confront mortality, we are left alone with the people, the issues and the sounds in their life: breathing, the engine of the car, a cell phone ringing. Rather than be comfortably guided into knowing how to feel about the scene at hand, we are forced to confront the issues and in their real complication. Aesthetically, perhaps the closest thing to a score is the sound of wind in the beautiful and moving penultimate scene where Solo stands at the cliff. The camera, shaky with the wind, its microphone completely distorted by the strong gusts of wind, perfectly captures the moment.

I think perhaps I would have liked to have learned more about William’s back story. While the interactions between him and Solo are telling and powerful in terms of thematic development, I was left with the feeling that his was potentially an interesting character about which I knew very little. I suppose this was part of the point—as an audience member, I could feel Solo’s frustration at being unable to crack William’s reclusive, resigned outer shell. Still, the fleeting glimpses into his notebook towards the end of the film made me think that we could have known more about him without detracting from the other elements of the film.

At the end of the film, I was inexplicably perplexed, and a little bit lost in my thoughts about what I’d just seen. Still, I was left with a very strong sense of beauty, and the more I’ve thought about it since, the more this has grown.

like two dories

Dory. I've had a hard time getting this song out of my head lately. Grizzly Bear has a very distinctive, unique sound, and this track is no exception. What I like is that the song is musically adventurous and simultaneously an extremely listen. Remember to listen a few times :)

gentrification

A friend pointed me to a nice piece in the Times recently entitled Strangers On His Street by Fort Greene resident Nelson George. This is a short, conversational article discussing his experiences with the gentrification of the neighborhood. There are some evocative bits about parts of Fort Greene serving as an enclave for young, black artists, and the writing is authentic without trite sentimenalism or nostalgia.

I moved to Fort Greene almost a year ago, and have completely fallen in love with the neighborhood. As a recent migrant to the area, I've been thinking about the issue of gentrification, and more specifically, about my role in the process. The term gentrification itself is poorly understood, I think, and I refer to the broader popular understanding of the word rather than a formal definition.

My sentiments are marked by ambivalence. One of the concerns often raised in this discussion is that gentrification can cause a neighborhood to lose its character. I've been resistant to conceptions of culture that view it as artefact; as something static. While there is value in passing tradition, the notion that culture is some historically enshrined collection of songs, dances, etiquette, clothing etc is one that I've bristled again. We define culture, and it constantly evolves as do our individual and societal circumstances. My point is that my views on neighborhood identity are analagous. Why should we expect that a neighborhood will stagnate and fail to change over time? It seems a kind of head-in-the-sand-romanticism to expect that things will always stay as they have been in a neighborhood. From this perspective, it seems natural and uncontroversial that a neighborhood's identity and characteristics will change over time.

On the other hand, George observes with rightful concern that "there seems to be surprisingly little interplay between the new white Fort Greene and the old-school black community." Viewed through this lens, the process begins to look less like evolution and more like plain and simple displacement. For a minority group that has been so extremely and systematically discriminated against, feared and mistreated by the majority, having strong physical communities (neighborhoods) is invaluable. Conversations about gentrification highlight how segregated North America remains, particularly outside of the professional realm (see Eric Holder).

As a new inhabitant to an established neighborhood, then, do I have an obligation to engage with the local community? I've certainly made efforts to be of the neighborhood, rather than simply in the neighborhood. I'm still thinking through the question of obligation, but from a personal perspective, there is no question that I want to be an engaged member of the Fort Greene community. I use local businesses often, have gotten to know some of my neighbors, and have been trying to attend local events. I could do more, without question. Still, I hope that my contribution to the neighborhood is mostly a positive one.

Oh, and I'm always on the lookout for new local friends...

different worlds

I spent the past few days in the bay area, and had a really nice time. In an unusual turn, I showed up in San Francisco without having done any research ahead of the trip; not so much as a quick Google search to identify points of interest. In retrospect, given the atmosphere of the trip and the area, this seems appropriate. At the end of the day, I spent quality time with friends and family, and am fairly refreshed after the fact.

As an (undeveloped) aside, I was struck by how very different the place felt from what I am used to. Sometimes I forget the vast array of experiences that people live through. At times it seemed like the sun was drawn from a different palate of colours than I am used to, and the air felt and smelled differently. Top it off with different architecture, a different terrain, and a distinct aesthetic sensibility among the people, and I really got to thinking that this was a different world than I'd come from.

Of course I realize that from a global perspective, New York and the Bay Area are remarkably similar. This, I think, heightens the reminder that there is a great deal of human experience that is not shared.

a room of one's own

I've had a great deal of trouble finding a roommate over the past few weeks. This morning, as I made myself breakfast in the morning peace, I thought about living alone. The quiet was nice.

Until I spent the first eight months of 2007 living alone in London, and since, I have always lived in groups. At home, I had siblings; at sixteen, I moved to boarding school; and I've always lived with roommates in college and in New York. I really like living with people, and the prospect of living alone has generally not appealed to me.

Still, I was reminded this morning that living alone, too, can be a positive experience. Certainly, I think it can mean more time spent on personal reflection, and I think this leads to meaningful growth. Furthemore, there is a sort of personal resilience that allows one to be free of social dependence on others, and this is forcibly developed when living alone. I've learned in recent years that it is a valuable skill to be alone without being lonely.

Living alone can also make things easier from a practical perspective. There are no arguments about standards of cleanliness, use of common space, or acceptable volumes at which to play music, for example. One can live how one wishes to, absolutely. On the other hand, to fall back on this as an argument strikes me as a little self indulgent. Shouldn't we be comfortable with the idea of compromise, and accustomed to living with rules that we can't set autonomously? When viewed this way, living alone could seem to prevent invaluable development in interpersonal skills.

Of course, much of this is cultural as well. Friends from Toronto are often surprised to hear that I still live 'with roomates', and am not on my own, so many years out of school. In New York, it is assumed that most people will live with roommates, out of necessity. In more traditional south Asian households (as an example), people can easily go their entire lives without living alone. Many people will live with their parents until they are married. Personally, as much as I love to have people around, I am really glad to have lived at least semi-autonomously (read: not with my parents).

My only point is that there is a spectrum of expectations and experiences, and how we judge them comes down in large part to our individual biases and preferences. I think I'd get used to living alone, and may even enjoy it. Still, at this point, I really just enjoy being around people too much to make that leap.

gravitas

I think I've gotten to a point in life where, though I'm happy, I've lost a sense of carefree lightness that used to characterize my state of being. Does this happen to everybody?

beards, b.o. and beats

On Saturday, I headed into Williamsburg with a few friends, and checked out two new spots. The first stop was a soul and funk dance party at the Glasslands Gallery. This was a prototypical Williamsburg joint-- the exterior was a run down, grimy building with no sign but the street number scrawled in white paint. When we got there, around eleven, the place was mostly empty. The aesthetic inside was unkempt, and the self-aware hipsters with tight pants, beards and occasionally body odour were in full effect. We got there early because after a $3 cover, there was supposed to be free beer from 11 until 12. I knew it was going to be a good night when they handed us Colt 45. To be fair, the music was great, and I gave serious consideration to hanging around until 1 to compete in the funk dance competition.

Instead, a group of us left sometime around 1230 to fulfill Shival's longstanding dream (of at least four weeks) to party at another Williamsburg dance spot: Bembe. Despite having no coat check, and a painfully inadequate bathroom situation, Bembe was awesome. The music was a blend of South and Central American influences, and although I normally find it difficult to dance to these rhythms, I was really feeling the dancing choose on Saturday. The crowd was very chill, everybody was having a good time on the floor, and the drinks were cheap. And no cover! Will definitely head back here at some point. Who wants to dance?

friends, part 2

Since writing the post on friendship a few days ago, I've been thinking about some additional dimensions.

Strong romantic relationships often share many characteristics with friendships. Often, when people are in love, they will describe their significant other as their best friend. The distinction I've been struggling with is whether being in love simply shares characteristics with friendship (and hence 'feels like it'), or whether there is a separable element of friendship that exists in parallel. This is an especially relevant question when thinking about how to move forward with relationships that have ended (I don't mean to be coy here-- I presume most readers of this blog will understand my motivations in discussing this topic). While I certainly hope for the latter, I sometimes fear that the former may be closer to the truth. Thoughts?

Another scenario I was thinking about is that of childhood friends who grow apart. How do we maintain friendships, if at all, when we've grown apart in terms of shared experiences, interests, and inclinations? Many of these dissipate, but some seem to stick around-- and I think there is value here. Value in having somebody who realizes how different you've become, but still cares for you, and will be there for you because of your shared past. These are the things that make us human.

the crying light

beautiful new music.
credit to jing for the introduction.

nkw

"Ooo you make me live"

A few years ago, I confided in somebody close to me that I was lonely; I felt that while I was friendly with a great many people, I didn't have many friends. The lines between acquaintances, friends, family and romantic interests, for example, often blur, and it can be difficult to compartmentalize relationships cleanly. Thinking about what it takes to sustain friendships is an interesting exercise, and I'd be interested to hear some of your thoughts. My intention here is just to express a few disconnected thoughts on the matter.

An old friend with whom I spent a summer in Norway some years ago recently left a message on my Facebook wall about letters that we used to exchange, and suggested we ought to meet up. The whole thing made me feel a little warm and fuzzy inside. What makes it really fascinating is that aside from our month or so in Norway together, she and I have spent literally no time together. Yet this one experience was apparently enough for us to stay in touch and continue sharing experiences over distance and time.

The most challenging thing for me with friendships that are grounded in the past is the shortage of shared experiences-- there can occasionally be a tendency to reduce interactions to nostalgic retellings. Happily, I think I have many close friends from whom I've lived apart for 3 or more years. I often find myself chatting with or writing to one of these people, and I am abruptly and acutely struck by just how much I miss them, and how deeply his or her friendship has affected me.

Few things are as valuable in times of distress as a friend who knows you. A close friend, one whom you've given up trying to impress, one who knows your flaws and weaknesses, one who is willing to just listen is truly a blessing. I've never been somebody who particularly enjoys spending time by myself (being a middle child, I guess). I have a tendency as well, to be repetitive and self-indulgent when things are bothering me. Without the friends I have, unwitting and otherwise, I'd be some kind of mess.

I love my friends, old and new, near and far. Thanks for everything.

parting ways

Last night, I sang in my fifth concert with the Young New Yorker's Chorus. We sang Rachmaninoff's All Night Vigil along with a few pieces by John Tavener. As always, it was a really wonderful experience for me. It was also very nice to have my parents in the audience! Thanks to those of you who were able to come hear us sing. It means a great deal to me.

Today I've had that sort of bittersweet feeling that always hits me after a concert. After weeks of engaging regularly and intensely with the music, I grow attached to the piece. The final days leading up to a concert are often when I find myself letting go and falling in love with the music. There is a sort of sadness, then, that ensues when the concert is over, and I realize that I won't be rehearsing the piece anymore. I like to keep the score and a good recording of the music. And every now and then, I get to sing an old piece that I know again; usually an exciting feeling.

Reluctantly on to the next thing, I suppose.

for the love of fort greene...

this morning, as i was leaving the farmer's market, i walked past fellow neighborhood resident jhumpa lahiri. and so continues my love affair with fort greene.

is he about to emote?

speaking of performance and emotion, check out jack white below on the conan finale

classifying creativity

Recently, I have been thinking about the word creative. It struck me recently that the word is fairly ill-defined, or perhaps too broadly defined to be very meaningful. Most people seem to agree that creativity is something valuable, having vaguely to do with generating unique ideas and expressions.

Consider, however, creativity of the sort that a scientist uses in developing an effective study and how it compares to the creativity of a painter. We may call a stage actor creative, and also praise a business leader for her creative approach to structuring her division. Are we really describing a comparable attribute in these two examples? It feels to me like we've just given a single name to two completely different concepts.

One of the relationships that I've been thinking about lately is between author and performer. The act of writing a work (music, play, film, etc.) undeniably demands creativity. Anybody who performs seriously knows that the same can be said of performance. Performing a piece with committment requires a dedicated, personal knowledge of the work, and an intimate sense of ones self. Indeed, our task as performer's is to communicate that which the page alone cannot do, and this requires creative drive in a very real sense. Nevertheless, for the sake of argument, the performer is still ultimately interpreting. Can it be said that the author is ultimately engaging in a more creative task by creating something from nothing? We occassionally see a performance that shatters this notion, but on the whole, does it have some merit?

Creative or not, I'm just thankful for opportunities to perform. There really is nothing else like it.

As always, I'd love to hear some of your thoughts.