Anecdotes

December 14, 2011

I’ve had a hard time figuring out what this blog should be since we returned from Brazil a year and a half ago. There’s something different about the indulgence of a blog while you’re away from your friends and family than when you’re in the city where you live all the time, and most of your friends and family live there, too. That said, I have an idea.

I was listening to an NPR podcast the other day (I listen to a lot of Fresh Air and This American Life when I run) and I forget who Terry Gross was interviewing, but her guest was talking about living his life for the value of the anecdote he would derive from a particular action or event. While I think I’d like to have more of an overarching goal, it’s not a bad philosophy to live by. Live for the anecdote. It will ensure a rich life with varied and interesting experiences and will probably include colorful people and spontaneous fun. I think it will also make for fun blog posting. Here is my challenge to myself: every day (now that I’m nearly done with finals in my second to last semester of graduate school) I will post every day a current anecdote or a past one. They might be large or small, banal or interesting, we’ll see how it goes. Stay with me. If it stinks, if it’s boring, let me know–I’ll adjust. If it’s too indulgent, please tell me that, too.

My anecdote for today: Scott and I went to see the National on Monday night. It was at the Beacon Theater on the Upper West Side, which is a weird place for a show, and we were in the last row at the top of the balcony. The theater is all gilt and red velvet, with a suit of armor to the left side of the stage. The band itself was mostly side lit, with those ground level lights that shoot soft cones of luminance. In the back flickered a live, hipstomatic-ish black and white film of what was happening on stage. It was beautiful, and cozy, and really, it didn’t matter that there wasn’t that much to see, the music was enveloping, the kind that’s rich, textured and visceral. The theater was a cocoon and the music got into the fibers of my sweater, the strands of my hair, the cilli of the velvet of the folding chair. In the back of the theater, especially at the top of the theater, no one can see if you’re just closing your eyes, absorbing, rather than going through the things you’re supposed to do at rock concerts.

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