When I was a student in Philadelphia, I was always impressed with the fact that I wasn't home, that I was in a major city seeing new things, being out in the world. I think it comes from growing up in a small town and coming from a family of farmers, people who never strayed far from home. No one in my family went to college really; no one left home to move to a new city. It wasn't as if it was discouraged--it was more that such a thing was not fathomed as a possibility. Such things were done by those who had fancy jobs, money and privilege.

While at college I felt so lucky to be there, and I didn't believe that it would last, that it could last. It was all a wonderful vacation that would (had to) end with me returning to my small town. I can remember distinct occasions when I promised myself to remember a moment for more mundane times certain in the future. I can remember walking the streets of Philadelphia during rainy spring nights, soaking up the feeling that a vibrant city gives off--buses driving by, headlights moving silently through small back streets, the orangish tint of the street lights, people hurrying to their destinations. I'd go by myself into Center City, to the Academy of Music, to hear the Philadelphia Orchestra or to hear a recital by a renowned musican, to the opera. Student ticket prices, and my love of great music. I loved the ride home on the bus after the concert. On weekends I'd often walk through the city, sometimes walk to the Philadelphia Art Museum and enjoy the privilege I felt for being able to see great works of art, to be in the museum itself. I loved walking among small streets filled with brownstone apartments and residential neighborhoods, small shops, book stores, and bakeries. I loved riding the subway with confidence, as if I belongs in that city, a city dweller.

I was in awe of the university and its inhabitants. It felt like an impressive place, and I often thought I didn't belong there, that I was lucky to be in such a world-class university. It was not Grove City College. The buildings and campus impressed me. The professors intimidated me uniformly by their very position, regardless of their individual personalities. The immense library inspired me every time I entered--corridors that extended for what seemed like miles, books in every language and on any topic, more than one thought even existed. I had access to all of this. Of course the students. They were impressive. They were better than me. Somehow they all knew the rules and the ways that I didn't--how could a boy from Grove City. They were smart AND clever, sociable and talented, all the things I believed that I was not.

I enjoyed studying atop the huge lounge area, windows on all sides, on the top of the student housing highrise I lived in. At night you could see the entire city, the streets demarcated with the orange street lights and the city grid alive with cars heading places. There was no doubt I was in foreign territory, and I loved it.

I did return to my small hometown. But I also left again--to Indiana, to Kentucky, to Pittsburgh, and to Rochester. Each of these moves carried with it the same feeling of awe, in varying degrees, and for different reasons. But underlying them was the sense that I was out in the world, and not contained within my hometown. I was out seeing things, doing, and exeriencing, and it was exciting.

I've lost this feeling, I think because I've been in the same place so long. Rochester has become my hometown, my new Grove City. It's safe, it's familiar, it feels confining. I'm no longer out in the world. And I miss that. It's strange how much I need familiar things, routine. Yet I also need the feeling that I'm out there. Without that it's just .... routine, it's just Grove City.

I had an interesting conversation at the gym tonight. I ran into this guy I've spoken to a few times before. I had seen him a lot at the gym, and I sensed that he might be someone I'd like to get to know. It's hard to identify why that is, why we target certain people we don't really know. I guess in this case he was both attractive to me and quiet, soft-spoken. That combination will always work with me. Anyway, I'd spoken to him on a few occasions before, but mostly just friendly banter. Tonight he mentioned how he'd been unfocused ever since he'd returned from a vacation. We began talking about jobs, careers. He's a PhD student in neuro science and works in a university lab. We found common ground in our interest in philosophy. He'd been a psychology and biology major in college, with a minor in philosophy. I'd been a philosophy major. He had a particular interest in the philosophy of mind, consciousness, which makes sense. I talked of my own interests in philosophy, how I'd wanted to get a PhD in philosophy, but how the need for a paying job led me to other things. We talked about a common admiration for a current philosopher in consciousness and the mind--Daniel Dennett. (I'd taken a course on the philosophy of mind and in it we read a book of Dennett's. He'd heard Dennett speak at Stanford.)

Hearing him talk with some excitment about the area, and his general immersion in the field, made me think about my own situation with some jealousy of his. He's studying a field he likes and will make a both a good career and a good life of it. My unfortunate situation is that somehow along the way, through a series of bad choices, fear, and perhaps a lack of talents, my interests and passions became disconnected from my life's work. And the rest of my life I'll be engaged in a struggle to re-connect the two.

I'm always being reminded of this at my current job. My boss and the people I work with are PhDs in computer science. Of course they're bright people, but what's more striking to me is how they care about the sorts of things they work on. My boss thinks in very abstract terms, always seeing the generalization of the immediate problem before him, always thinking in terms of principles and abstractions as he's solving a tangible problem. He has an academic mind, and he loves thinking about the problems, seeing the solutions. While he's engaged in real issues with high corporate stakes, he's also learning and growing in his intellectual domain. Me.... I don't give a crap about computer science as an intellectual pursuit. hahah It bores me. It's interesting to play with, like it might be fun for the accountant to work on woodworking projects in his basement on the weekends. But as an intellectual pursuit... I just don't care. And the industry--printing, document output trechnologies, etc.--boring. Who cares. So this is a predicament for me.

In the meantime, I've pulled my old copy of the Dennett book from my shelf and am eager to dive into it. I've found old highlighter throughout it, so I guess I actually did take it somewhat seriously at the time. I saw an essay in there that I remember reading, which came up recently in conversation with Ann or someone, about dreams--"Are dreams experiences?" Maybe I'll re-read that. Maybe I'll read something that I haven't read. Maybe first I'll tinker on the piano and eat strawberries. Hopefully I'll talk to my gym pal further about Dennett and other things.

I haven't written in a week or so. Too long. And too bad, because I have lots to write about and the inclination to write. I think it's because I've not been very happy the last few months or more. I tend to like to write and whine when I'm not happy. I actually like being unhappy sometimes. haha Anyway, unhappiness is a topic for another day.

Today I thought I'd write about the major events of last week--the June in Buffalo music festival that I attended, and a few movies I saw. I saw first a Philip Glass concert and talk, followed by a screening of Naqoyqatsi, a movie by director Godfrey Reggio to music by Glass. A few days later I saw a concert of music by Steve Reich, including a screening of his video opera "Three Tales," with video by his wife Beryl Korot. And then the next day I saw another Reggio/Glass film, their first, Koyaanisqatsi. Of the three theater pieces, only Koyaanisqatsi really seemed to be efffective. They all had similar themes--Naqoyqatsi and Three Tales were both about the effects of technology and how effectively we're assimilating it. Three Tales is divided into segments--on the Hindenburg, on nuclear bomb testing on Bikini Island, and on Dolly, the cloned sheep. Koyaanisqatsi was similar, but focused on the ravages of modern life--ravages on the earth brought about by consumerism, ravages on the human spirit brought by a souless and brutish urbanism, etc. I find that I could write about these things at length, but I don't want to bore you. What I want is to make a simple point or two. First, these things, as works of art, may not have staying power. In 50 years we'll be looking at them as sort of curiosity pieces or anthopomorphic glimpses into the social and moral views of their times. How did people at the turn of the 21st century view technology? Look at Reich's Three Tales. Of course I believe this is not true of the music, but of the drama, yes. Reich doesn't tell us anything but a sort of journalistic account of three events set to a rather dull video montage. There is no human story, only message, albeit an unclear one. Yes, today it makes us think, and perhaps he's content with that. But in 20 years we'll be chuckling at his naivette, at the crudeness of what we think of now as innovation in video and the integration of the various media--there will be no emotional payoff.

And so my theory on great art is trotted out once again--the best art is art that moves us emotionally. And art that moves us emotionally, profoundly, has no overt message. Great art has no message. Message is not the artist's friend. Koyaanisqatsi works best when Reggio discovers something cool visually and exploits it. It seems dated and a bit silly when he uses images to make a larger point about the environment, for example. That's not to say his film making should not be guided by overarching themes. But it shouldn't set out to make a point. And he knows this. (I'm remembering a quote we heard of his during the introduction to Koyaanisqatsi, but I can't remember quite how it went. And also Glass discussed how the films were put together instinctively rather than with with reason.) I keep thinking about the Corigliano opera "The Ghosts of Versailles." I don't know what this is about, but I'm certain I'm more interested in this than Reich's (or anyone's) ruminations on technology.

Story and narrative should not be contaminated by the author's larger ideas. We don't care about those; we care about the story. But it's not as simple as that. Many cheap paperback authors tell great stories, yet they don't approach great art. So what does it take? In my opinion, great art appears when the author both surrenders himself to the story and uses it as a vehicle for revealing even smaller things. Artistic efforts get better as they focus more and more on small things. Not grand ideas, but the buzz of a fan next door, the frayed hem of a summer dress--the small events and things that comprise the story. The story should unfold without notice while we're focusing on smaller things, the things we see and experience every day.

Great art reveals things about ourselves that we acknowledge with the author with a smile and a nod. This is why the movie that Ann and I saw the other night.... what was it called??? .. "Raising Victor Vargas" ... that's why is was so wonderful. It focused on people, their simple stories, little things that together make a beautiful film. And this is why Proust is such a great author. He sees more than nearly any author I've ever read. He doesn't hurry to tell a story. The story is nearly incidental as he tells you about Swann's internal panic when his lover doesn't show at a dinner party, or about the pain the narrator felt as a child when his mother didn't come up to his bed to kiss him good night, about the momentary confusion one sometimes experiences upon waking up in a strange room, about the route his family walks would take during summers. Proust sees everything around him, and everything within our heads. And he sees the beauty in it all. I love him as an author. His writing is perfection.

But enough of this. Everytime I write in this I think I should do just that--write about real things, little things. But then I always get side-tracked by ideas. This is exactly why I'll never be a good writer. hahah