Better than last time
If anyone out there knows of a composer who either was born or lived for some time in Azerbaijan, has a familiar name, wrote chamber music, and is still alive, I would be very much obliged for the information. It's amazing how much not remembering a key piece of information to a fairly boring story can irk me for an entire afternoon and evening. I keep thinking of Shostakovich, but he's been gone for about 20 years or so. The only other person who had a serious guess went with Perlman which is rather absurd since I don't think he's ever composed, although I could be mistaken. At least he's definitely alive. Since I have spent the last hour of my life trying to dig up this information on the web and have been catastrophically unsuccessful I thought I ought to attempt to pass the burden on to someone else, or at least get it off of me. I do still want to know. If anyone has a 2002-2003 or 2003-2004 calendar of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, that would save me a lot of headache.
It's also amazing how much time I will waste in a frivolous pursuit of information like this when I have much more pressing matters at hand, like a midterm that will occur in approximately 36 hours, most of which I hope to spend asleep. My studying is quite incomplete and yet I feel no serious concern, and most likely will continue in a state of blithe denial until Thursday morning at which point I will slowly begin to panic and wonder why I put off studying when I had so much free time available Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. One can only wonder about the ostrich in the sand approach, particularly when it's a repeated trope. I usually end up cleaning or organizing my bookshelf or catching up on emails to friends, but today it was Composer X.
I wrote a story many years about Rachael and Matt watching the visual equalizer play something by Mos Def when they were both supposed to be doing homework. I don't know if they remember - in Palevsky Spring Quarter, for my Narrative-Non Fiction class. I didn't really know what I was doing in that class since I lacked the serious creative writing or journalism background of all the other students, but I knew that I liked to write and thought I ought to formalize my knowledge a little. I remember that we workshopped this essay in class and that everyone wanted to know what the underlying story was. It turned out, based on our discussion, that really the story was the conscious avoidance of work, done so subtly and so willingly. It appears, at least for me, that nothing has changed. One could even see this writing as another form of that. I should be studying, instead I sit here and write. I could write only one paragraph, even only one good sentence and there are many nights when I resolve to do just that, and yet I think that I have only produced one or possible two such examples. Ten minutes turns into an hour so easily. But tonight I am going to take a stand, and meekly proclaim, "No more?" And I shall back up my position by strongly finishing with the next sentence whatever I choose to write. With such an ultimatum, nothing good comes to mind.
It's also amazing how much time I will waste in a frivolous pursuit of information like this when I have much more pressing matters at hand, like a midterm that will occur in approximately 36 hours, most of which I hope to spend asleep. My studying is quite incomplete and yet I feel no serious concern, and most likely will continue in a state of blithe denial until Thursday morning at which point I will slowly begin to panic and wonder why I put off studying when I had so much free time available Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. One can only wonder about the ostrich in the sand approach, particularly when it's a repeated trope. I usually end up cleaning or organizing my bookshelf or catching up on emails to friends, but today it was Composer X.
I wrote a story many years about Rachael and Matt watching the visual equalizer play something by Mos Def when they were both supposed to be doing homework. I don't know if they remember - in Palevsky Spring Quarter, for my Narrative-Non Fiction class. I didn't really know what I was doing in that class since I lacked the serious creative writing or journalism background of all the other students, but I knew that I liked to write and thought I ought to formalize my knowledge a little. I remember that we workshopped this essay in class and that everyone wanted to know what the underlying story was. It turned out, based on our discussion, that really the story was the conscious avoidance of work, done so subtly and so willingly. It appears, at least for me, that nothing has changed. One could even see this writing as another form of that. I should be studying, instead I sit here and write. I could write only one paragraph, even only one good sentence and there are many nights when I resolve to do just that, and yet I think that I have only produced one or possible two such examples. Ten minutes turns into an hour so easily. But tonight I am going to take a stand, and meekly proclaim, "No more?" And I shall back up my position by strongly finishing with the next sentence whatever I choose to write. With such an ultimatum, nothing good comes to mind.
posted by trophywife at 10:28 PM
3 Comments:
Found it (from Joe's page). Good stuff. You in Chicago?
next week
excellent.
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