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edenfalling1. I forgot to mention this earlier, but in April I posted 7,000 words of fanfiction, which is an okay-ish month's work for me. It would have been more, but stress tends to interfere with writing -- gasp shock horror -- and then I was fighting my remix, so eh. Also I really want to get through my last three Cotton Candy Bingo prompts, but the Edmund's-first-Narnian-winter one is refusing to gel properly, so I think I'll shelve that idea for later and try to fit some other fandom/character(s)/plot to the prompt.
My remaining prompts are news, unexpected love, and the WILD CARD square, by the way, if anyone has suggestions.
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2. My parents visited yesterday, partly just because, partly for Mother's Day, and partly because of my season tickets to the Finger Lakes Chamber Ensemble concert series. They picked me up after church (the lesson was on working together, btw), we installed my air conditioner, we went out for brunch at Mahogany Grill, we did a little shopping (mostly gardening stuff), we attended the concert, we grabbed some fast food for dinner, and they left.
The concert consisted of three pieces. First was Ravel's Chansons madécasses, which are three songs with lyrics from Évariste de Parny's poetry. Second was a piano quintet (standard string quartet plus piano) written by Steven Stucky, a local-ish composer. After the intermission was Schubert's String Quintet in C, D. 956.
The songs are an exercise in weird instrumentation: piano, cello, flute (with occasional piccolo), and soprano voice. They are an interesting mix of dissonance and harmony, very changeable in mood and effect -- even within each of the three songs. The first, "Nahandove," is basically a love song, someone waiting for a beautiful young woman to arrive, having sex, and saying farewell with the anticipation of repeating the incident next evening. (One would tend to assume the narrator is a man, given de Parny's time period, but the part is written for a woman to sing, so... an interesting effect, which I liked.) The second, "Aoua," is a warning to the people of Madagascar not to trust white men; it's very dramatic and powerful. The third, "Il est doux," is probably also meant to be sort of a sensual love song, but it comes off as straight-up male entitlement, with the narrator being all, "It's hot and I'm lying here in the shade; now dance for me, women, until the evening breeze comes, at which point I want you to go make dinner." Um. Yeah. And the narrator here has a stronger implicit gender than the narrator of "Nahandove," since the address is to "women," not "other women," and then the whole you go make dinner, instead of we'll go make dinner; there's a distinct attitude of women-as-objects and narrator-as-subject, whereas in "Nahandove" the girl is also an active participant in the love scene.
Anyway, moving on!
Stucky's piano quintet is interesting from a technical perspective, but I found it weirdly boring to listen to despite the dramatic shifts in mood and tempo it makes at several points. It just felt kind of shapeless to me -- like it had neither a defined classical structure nor a thematic/emotional point to make that carried the music through some sort of journey. It was like... technical exploration for the sake of technical exploration. Which is fine if you like that sort of thing, I suppose, but it's not my cup of tea.
Awkwardly, Stucky was in attendance and introduced the piece himself. The audience gave half a standing ovation at the conclusion. I'm not sure how many genuinely liked it that much, how many felt socially obligated, and how many were just saluting the musicians for their technical skill, because as I said, it is a very technically demanding piece -- or at least sounds that way.
Schubert's quintet was lovely, of course. Pieces that survive the centuries do tend to be good, or people wouldn't keep passing them on. I liked the third movement best -- as I said to Dad, you could almost dance to the first and third parts of it, and even the slower, minor middle section is amazingly catchy. I can easily see why it's considered a masterpiece. :-)
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3. I get so tired of explaining the situation with the smoke shop to customers. First, I have to make sure they've even read the HUGE signs in the windows, to know that we're closing. Then I ask if they've read the explanatory notice, which we have posted in at least a dozen places around the store.
Then I get to explain a little further, that no, it's not that we were independently going out of business. It's a building renovation issue. The landlords have to put in an new stairwell and elevator for ADA compliance as part of creating a [new business] on the second floor, and that will be coming out of our retail unit's space. They will be knocking down walls and punching a giant hole through the floor for an elevator shaft, and you can't run a store out of a construction site. No, we don't know if we'll reopen, or if so, where or when.
Yes, I have noticed that that means I'll be out of a job. Astonishingly, I am not oblivious to the obvious. Yes, I am looking for a new job. What is with these questions? Seriously, how stupid do you think I am?
Yes, it's a sad thing that we're closing. Yes, we're a local icon/institution. (If I took a shot for each time I heard this, I would be dead of alcohol poisoning before the end of each shift.) Yes, I'm sure you have lots of memories of coming here with your [fill in relatives] back in the day. We're doing a little folk history project; would you like to write your reminiscences down in this book? No? You don't have your glasses, your thoughts in order, or enough time to write? (Even though I notice you have more than enough time to talk.) Well we'll be open through the end of June; you can come back and write an entry later. No, I don't want to hear your memories anyway, jesus shitting christ, shut up and go away. (If I played a drinking game with "I used to come here all the time" as the trigger phrase, I'd be just as dead as with the icon/institution one.)
No, I will not tell you if we were profitable or not. No, I cannot tell you about our lease terms. No, I have no influence over whether or not we'll reopen; that's entirely up to our owner. No, our owner is not the same as the owner of the building. No, I can't tell you anything about their negotiations or lack thereof. STOP BEING SO NOSY.
Yes, I'm aware we're out of [fill in product]; we're trimming down our stock because, I don't know if you've noticed the signs, but WE'RE CLOSING.
*smile of extremely strained politeness*
*repeat ad nauseum*
My remaining prompts are news, unexpected love, and the WILD CARD square, by the way, if anyone has suggestions.
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2. My parents visited yesterday, partly just because, partly for Mother's Day, and partly because of my season tickets to the Finger Lakes Chamber Ensemble concert series. They picked me up after church (the lesson was on working together, btw), we installed my air conditioner, we went out for brunch at Mahogany Grill, we did a little shopping (mostly gardening stuff), we attended the concert, we grabbed some fast food for dinner, and they left.
The concert consisted of three pieces. First was Ravel's Chansons madécasses, which are three songs with lyrics from Évariste de Parny's poetry. Second was a piano quintet (standard string quartet plus piano) written by Steven Stucky, a local-ish composer. After the intermission was Schubert's String Quintet in C, D. 956.
The songs are an exercise in weird instrumentation: piano, cello, flute (with occasional piccolo), and soprano voice. They are an interesting mix of dissonance and harmony, very changeable in mood and effect -- even within each of the three songs. The first, "Nahandove," is basically a love song, someone waiting for a beautiful young woman to arrive, having sex, and saying farewell with the anticipation of repeating the incident next evening. (One would tend to assume the narrator is a man, given de Parny's time period, but the part is written for a woman to sing, so... an interesting effect, which I liked.) The second, "Aoua," is a warning to the people of Madagascar not to trust white men; it's very dramatic and powerful. The third, "Il est doux," is probably also meant to be sort of a sensual love song, but it comes off as straight-up male entitlement, with the narrator being all, "It's hot and I'm lying here in the shade; now dance for me, women, until the evening breeze comes, at which point I want you to go make dinner." Um. Yeah. And the narrator here has a stronger implicit gender than the narrator of "Nahandove," since the address is to "women," not "other women," and then the whole you go make dinner, instead of we'll go make dinner; there's a distinct attitude of women-as-objects and narrator-as-subject, whereas in "Nahandove" the girl is also an active participant in the love scene.
Anyway, moving on!
Stucky's piano quintet is interesting from a technical perspective, but I found it weirdly boring to listen to despite the dramatic shifts in mood and tempo it makes at several points. It just felt kind of shapeless to me -- like it had neither a defined classical structure nor a thematic/emotional point to make that carried the music through some sort of journey. It was like... technical exploration for the sake of technical exploration. Which is fine if you like that sort of thing, I suppose, but it's not my cup of tea.
Awkwardly, Stucky was in attendance and introduced the piece himself. The audience gave half a standing ovation at the conclusion. I'm not sure how many genuinely liked it that much, how many felt socially obligated, and how many were just saluting the musicians for their technical skill, because as I said, it is a very technically demanding piece -- or at least sounds that way.
Schubert's quintet was lovely, of course. Pieces that survive the centuries do tend to be good, or people wouldn't keep passing them on. I liked the third movement best -- as I said to Dad, you could almost dance to the first and third parts of it, and even the slower, minor middle section is amazingly catchy. I can easily see why it's considered a masterpiece. :-)
-----
3. I get so tired of explaining the situation with the smoke shop to customers. First, I have to make sure they've even read the HUGE signs in the windows, to know that we're closing. Then I ask if they've read the explanatory notice, which we have posted in at least a dozen places around the store.
Then I get to explain a little further, that no, it's not that we were independently going out of business. It's a building renovation issue. The landlords have to put in an new stairwell and elevator for ADA compliance as part of creating a [new business] on the second floor, and that will be coming out of our retail unit's space. They will be knocking down walls and punching a giant hole through the floor for an elevator shaft, and you can't run a store out of a construction site. No, we don't know if we'll reopen, or if so, where or when.
Yes, I have noticed that that means I'll be out of a job. Astonishingly, I am not oblivious to the obvious. Yes, I am looking for a new job. What is with these questions? Seriously, how stupid do you think I am?
Yes, it's a sad thing that we're closing. Yes, we're a local icon/institution. (If I took a shot for each time I heard this, I would be dead of alcohol poisoning before the end of each shift.) Yes, I'm sure you have lots of memories of coming here with your [fill in relatives] back in the day. We're doing a little folk history project; would you like to write your reminiscences down in this book? No? You don't have your glasses, your thoughts in order, or enough time to write? (Even though I notice you have more than enough time to talk.) Well we'll be open through the end of June; you can come back and write an entry later. No, I don't want to hear your memories anyway, jesus shitting christ, shut up and go away. (If I played a drinking game with "I used to come here all the time" as the trigger phrase, I'd be just as dead as with the icon/institution one.)
No, I will not tell you if we were profitable or not. No, I cannot tell you about our lease terms. No, I have no influence over whether or not we'll reopen; that's entirely up to our owner. No, our owner is not the same as the owner of the building. No, I can't tell you anything about their negotiations or lack thereof. STOP BEING SO NOSY.
Yes, I'm aware we're out of [fill in product]; we're trimming down our stock because, I don't know if you've noticed the signs, but WE'RE CLOSING.
*smile of extremely strained politeness*
*repeat ad nauseum*
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(no subject)
Date: 2014-05-13 02:50 pm (UTC)But, if I were a regular, I would talk to you when you weren't too busy. I would reflect that I could go to the 7-11 for my tickets or smokes or magazine, but that I like coming here, week after week, and that I came here when I was pregnant with my first kid and got my first TIME here. I would say that I see you more than I see my mother or family members who live far away, more often than my doctor and my kids' teachers. I'm worried about the people at the shop because I know the job market is terrible and I really hope you can get a job and gosh will you have health coverage and I hope that your unemployment gives you enough time to find something you really love. Customers come to these places for the connections with people. They don't know your last name or where you live and they have other options for their purchases, but they come to see YOU because you are an important part of their life. They really, really appreciate you.
You've provided a valuable, meaningful service to them, they are sad to lose this connection that will not otherwise exist, and they are worried about you and your fellow co-workers. I would be really sad to see the shop go. I am sad to hear of it sitting way over here in on line land because I've enjoyed your stories over the year and all that they tell me of this small, local business.
(no subject)
Date: 2014-05-14 03:50 am (UTC)It's the people who are NOT regulars who really irritate me, because they DON'T know me. They don't see me more often than their doctors or distant relatives. In many cases, I have never seen them before despite working at the smoke shop for over eight years. And all their stories take the form of "I USED to come here all the time" with the implicit "but I don't anymore, of course, because of reasons, but you can't close because that would desecrate my childhood memories; you must remain frozen in amber forever, no matter how little sense that makes from a physical practicality standpoint (hello, construction site!) or a business standpoint." They have read an article about our closing, or seen the window signs while walking by to other places, and come in to sort of make us the receptacle of their sudden bursts of nostalgia and their wounded insistence that we're SO IMPORTANT, really we are, even though we obviously haven't had any active part in their lives for decades.
It's like random strangers coming up and telling you how to raise your kids, I guess. It feels similarly socially invasive.
I get that the nostalgic ramblers' stories are meaningful to them, and I am sort of abstractly interested from a historical perspective, but not nearly enough to express the sympathy they expect me to produce. I just do not care about their childhood candy-and-comics tales, at least not at the length they tend to recount them, which is why I try to head them off by offering the notebook and a pen. It's amazing how many people then kind of dry up and abruptly leave... because they're not really telling stories to pass on history. They're telling stories as a social transaction -- and it's a social transaction of the sort that always makes me feel they're trying to turn me into a free therapist. They want my sympathy for the jolt they are receiving at the realization that change is real. And frankly, I am not a very nice person, I am not a socially oriented person, and I'm not good at faking sympathy I don't actually feel.
The people who come in to deliver pseudo-sympathetic anti-capitalist rants are straight-up jerks and I tend to pointedly ignore them via body-language or even just walking away to tidy stuff on the opposite side of the store once their transactions are finished. The clueless problem-solvers -- of the "It's really very simple, you just need to Do X, or Move to Location Y, or Try Z," persuasion -- get a repetition of "That's up to our owner. Nope, I really have no say in the matter. Yup, like I said, I have no control over that. We're owned by STNC, feel free to write them a letter," and similar phrases, and again the closed-off body language. Because I really do have NO CONTROL over whether, when, and where we might come back in some form, and therefore I am not the person to whom advice should be offered. (I admit I do like to imagine Mr. Speakerphone's probable reactions in the event any of them actually do write to or call him to proffer unsolicited advice. See above in re: not a nice person.)
I am s
Date: 2014-05-14 01:12 pm (UTC)Oh, I read the Lilith story that someone remixed for you and wow that's a great piece of work. I adore your original piece and I loved your remixer's work too.
(no subject)
Date: 2014-05-15 05:22 am (UTC)Isn't that an awesome remix? The mystery author found SO MUCH inside my tiny little ficlet!
(no subject)
Date: 2014-05-16 04:51 am (UTC)I would probably be one of the clueless last-visit customers if I were anywhere near town. Honestly I rarely went in the smoke shop at any point in my life, but there's been a certain comfort in knowing it was still there all this time. Even from a distance of a couple thousand miles, I'm very sad to see it close. But you have all my sympathy for having to handle this outpouring of emotion that actually has nothing to do with you, especially without the moral support of air conditioning.
(no subject)
Date: 2014-05-20 12:20 am (UTC)It IS always a wrench when something one had sort of counted on always being there in the background abruptly changes or goes away. I remember being quite upset when I visited my parents and discovered that my elementary school had built a huge, awkward addition out into part of their "backyard" area. But knowing the source of the reminiscences does not, alas, translate into eagerness to actually listen to them at much length. :-(
I do wish more people would write things down in our book. I'd feel weird transcribing some of the stuff people have said verbally, especially when they don't give me their names, but there HAVE been some interesting things buried in the more general "Oh no, you're closing!" sentiments. Like the guy who told me his family let their dog wander loose on East Hill in the early 1970s, and they kept finding it down at Mayers because apparently one of the clerks was a soft touch and kept feeding it snacks. That's worth recording, but he refused point blank to write anything. :-/