More than that: the chance, the fate, that suffuse the past before my eyes are conspicuously present in the accustomed confusion of these books.  For what else is this collection but a disorder to which habit has accommodated itself to such an extent that it can appear as an order?

—Walter Benjamin, “Unpacking My Library”

I do not consider myself a collector.  Quite the opposite, really—the burden of objects weighs heavy on me and I purge often, with gusto and without hesitation.  Books, though, hold a special place in my heart, more than any other category of objects I own.  Here are a few of my favorite pieces from the collection that resides just a few feet from my bed:

Religious "literature"

I acquired this gem over the summer when I was visited by some really nice people who turned out to be Jehovah’s Witnesses.  The beauty of this text is its utility.  When I encounter other door-to-door proselytizers (typically Mormons, but I’ve seen all sorts in this neighborhood), I’ll grab this book and turn the tables.  Plus, the illustrations are really good for a laugh.

People of all ages and races worship the "True God" by...trekking mountain paths (?)

Abercrombie & Fitch Quarterly, Issue 25, "Back to School 2003"

This was given to me by my good friends, Alex and Adam, and stands out as one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever received from anyone.  I generally avoid Abercrombie & Fitch products—and catalogues—but this one stands out as a fascinating cultural artifact because it has commentary from Slavoj Žižek, a significant figure in contemporary Continental philosophy.

Pretty much

When asked about his choice to provide copy for the quarterly by the Boston Globe, Žižek said, “If I were asked to choose between doing things like this to earn money and becoming fully employed as an American academic, kissing ass to get a tenured post, I would with pleasure choose writing for such journals!”  Brilliant.

Published in Rolling Stone Magazine

Shortly after David Foster Wallace’s suicide in September 2008, Rolling Stone put out the best eulogy/article on him that I know of.  I made a point of purchasing the magazine for this article alone (the version made available online is severely amended to its detriment).  I later snipped the article out and got rid of the rest of the magazine, but this piece gets read once every few months.

The beloved tome

I read Infinite Jest for the first time in the summer of 2007.  It changed my perspective on damn near everything and continues to pop into my head quite often.  I’ll be rereading it this summer.  With two bookmarks, of course.

The sign of a truly loved book

Ms. G's favorite

My favorite teacher in high school was Kay Goodman.  She taught me how to act, cast me as Mercutio, and was probably the most passionate person I have ever met.  She loved what she did and I remember her often as I think about my probable future as a teacher.  When You Comin’ Back, Red Ryder? was one of Ms. Goodman’s favorite plays.  She was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) a few months into my sophomore year.  The disease attacks nerve tissue, but targets different nerve tissue in each person.  In Ms. Goodman’s case, it went straight for her throat.  Just a year after the diagnosis, she lost the ability to enunciate words, forcing her to retire prematurely.  Watching her exhaust herself directing our last play together stands out as one of the most tragic things I have ever witnessed.  Months before her retirement (and just a year or two before her death), I volunteered to help her clean out a closet.  She let me keep whatever I found on the shelves of books and plays.  I took this book.  It still has her notes in it.

Five males, three females

I have both endured and helped friends endure heartbreak of varying degrees.  In spite of it all, it seems like our generation doesn’t really suffer from an overabundance of heartbreak, but a profound deficit of risk-taking.  While unreciprocated love has always received some attention in cultures of practically every sort, it seems to be the dominant theme these days.  We are the generation of pining, sitting on one’s hands, and avoiding grand gestures for fear of rejection.

It’s not so much that the feelings aren’t there.  Love is nigh unavoidable.  The willingness to put it out on the line and explain to another person exactly how you feel, though—the gesture of really, truly exposing your deepest sentiments—is what freaks most people out.  And it’s not like this is anything new.  Only now our generation’s heroes are the ones that wallow in their self-pitying longing and have to be pushed over the edge by external circumstances or desperation, rarely will power (see, e.g., the cultural epics of 90s television, Friends and Sex and the City).

Similarly, there is a lack of grand gestures in the other direction as well.  Breakups are rarely actual breakups—instead, a breakup merely signals the start of a series of ambiguous and painful hookup sessions with your ex and other people to the point of exhaustion for both parties.  The door never completely shuts because, hey, neither party was really willing to ever make a grand gesture in the first place that would have really tested both parties’ mettle.  And so it goes.

Faced with difficulties that inevitably arise from these norms—and they really are becoming the norm—I dispense one bit of advice: figure your shit out.  This entails a whole number of commitments, duties, and general provisions.  To wit:

1. Don’t start a relationship (emotional, physical, or otherwise) when someone else is on your radar.  Even if the someone else is geographically distant, taken, or otherwise unavailable.  If you’re unsure about someone, make a grand gesture that adequately expresses how you feel, even if that’s mostly confusion.  If you don’t know what constitutes a grand gesture, ask yourself if you’re completely comfortable doing X.  If the answer is no, then it’s probably a grand gesture.  The other person’s response will almost always give you enough certainty to pull out of the gray area.  On that note…
2. You will never be absolutely certain about anything.  People change.  Relationship dynamics change.  The other person might decide that they prefer members of the opposite/same gender.  Or maybe they’ll become a furry, or decide that they have some other fetish that you can’t satisfy, or that celibacy seems like a good idea.  Who knows?  The fact that certainty is impossible doesn’t give you carte blanche to be a jackass, though.  As such…
3. There will be a gamble involved.  Everything is contingent.  Take a deep breath and suck it up.  With great risk comes great reward.  You won’t become a millionaire playing the penny slots.  If you make the gamble, though, make the fucking gamble.  Commit yourself to it.  Really try the other person on for size.  Make some grand gestures.  You can’t do that with some other potential partner on the horizon.  Which is why the first step is so important.

This clearly isn’t a surefire way to avoid heartbreak, but it’s really the only way to be an authentic, decent person.  And really, the lack of authentic, decent people is probably at the root of all this other bullshit.

• Woods | Songs of Shame: I had several lengthy discussions with my friend, Jesse, over our differing musical temperaments this year.  We had a lot of musical synchronicity over 2008, but we were pretty split on most albums this last year.  I’ve been in a really lo-fi mood lately and I think Woods’s album is nearly perfect—she was non-plussed with it.  Excepting “September of Pete” (a nine minute, self-congratulatory jam session that doesn’t really fit with the rest of the album and jarringly cuts the album in half), Songs of Shame is melodic and mellow without being dispassionate.  Just skip track four.
• Bibio | Ambivalence Avenue: I can’t really describe this album.  It’s a mix between dance music and folk music.  Considering folk is probably the first type of music that humans danced to, I think Bibio is doing something really extraordinary by crafting folk music conditioned by our generation’s culture.  As such, one shouldn’t expect traditional folk music here, but instead a truly unique musical experience.
• The Antlers | Hospice: This album grabbed me and wouldn’t let go for about a month.  This is probably one of the most “complete” albums of the year, as it tells a deeply personal story of a man losing his lover to cancer.  Having lost my grandfather at the beginning of 2009 after several weeks in the hospital, this album resonated with me in a significant way.  Coming back to it near the end of this year with a slightly less emotion, it’s still musically brilliant, lyrically brilliant, and shows a really deep level of care and craftsmanship.  I’m excited to hear The Antlers’s next project.

And staying in threes, my most disappointing albums of 2009:

• Volcano Choir | Unmap: Bon Iver produced my favorite album of 2008 and I was hoping for another experience akin to For Emma, Forever Ago.  Instead, I listened to a shoddy post-rock album that is weak, gutless, and boring.  The thing is, the album inspires nothing in me.  I’m not annoyed by it, I’m not passionately upset by it, I’m bored by it.  What a disappointment.
• Beirut | March of the Zapotec/Realpeople Holland: When I heard Zach Condon was orchestrating a new album with southwestern influences in mind, I was elated.  Beirut’s past two albums have put an original spin on traditional, regional styles to produce incredible musical experiences.  Strangely, this album was split into two parts.  March of the Zapotec is clearly inspired by New Mexican culture and is quite good, even though it’s far from being Beirut’s best album.  Then it’s cut with Realpeople Holland, which is mostly slow synthesizer music with plaintive vocals.  The two don’t mix—each one keeps the other from ever getting off the ground.  And it’s disappointing because if either of them had been given adequate attention, either of them could have been great.
• Bibio | The Apple and the Tooth: After loving Ambivalence Avenue, I expected great things and was subsequently let down.  Hard.  Half of the album is comprised of earlier songs by Bibio remixed by other artists and the other half—while catchy—don’t really feel carefully composed or thoughtful.  What’s more it just doesn’t feel musically coherent.  I’m curious what was going on behind the scenes here.  Specifically, I wonder if Bibio’s studio, thrilled with the reception of Ambivalence Avenue, pushed for another release as soon as possible.  What we got was a series of leftover songs that didn’t make the cut in the past along with some mediocre remixes of songs that really aren’t improved in any noticeable way.

Other stuff worth mentioning:

• I didn’t list Animal Collective’s Merriweather Post Paviliion because I didn’t really enjoy it.  I felt like Atlas Sound’s Logos was a better album that tried to incorporate classical pop music with a post-rock/noise sound.  I felt like Fuck Buttons’s Tarot Sport was a better album that did the traditional noise/experimental sound akin to Animal Collective’s older stuff.  Sandwiched between these two, Merriweather Post Pavilion just wasn’t that satisfying.
• Can the Yeah Yeah Yeahs just stop producing music please?  It’s Blitz! was gimmicky and thoughtless.  And after listening to what Karen O did with the Where the Wild Things Are soundtrack, I’m convinced that she’s a one trick pony.  It’s time to put her out to pasture.  I’d say the same thing about Passion Pit, but I want to see what their next album has in store before writing them off entirely.
• Dark Was the Night was not included in my best-of list because I think of it more as a compilation than an album.  Still, it’s absolutely superb and deserves mentioning as one of the most enjoyable listening experiences from this last year.  Also, it’s probably the best collection to introduce a newbie to the current music scene.

(serving ourselves, sitting down to eat)

Aunt/uncle/cousin: You didn’t want any ham/turkey/other meat?
Me: Nope, I’m a vegequarian.  I’ll eat fish, but no other meat.
Them: You’re still doing that, huh?
Me: Yep.
Them: So, do you think it’s wrong that I eat meat?
Me: …can we talk about this after dinner?
Them: I didn’t claw my way to the top of the food chain to just not eat meat!
Me: …
Them: Well, it’s your loss.  More meat for me!
Me: …

Neither of us were particularly good at the game.  We were the best of friends.  We lived in a pretty remote corner of the Estancia Valley.  There weren’t many people our age around.  At least, not within a mile or two.  I would like to think that even if there were a hundred alternatives nearby, we still would have picked each other.

So we would start the game by not responding to the other for half an hour, long enough for the other to notice.  It rarely lasted for more than an hour.  The longest episode was on a roadtrip.  I think it lasted the entire day.  Or at least from the time of our departure one morning until lunch.  It seemed like forever.

We’re getting older now and we have gone down different paths.  He does contracting work, mostly home construction, and can build something with a few tools and his bare hands from the ground up.  He could probably build an entire house if he wanted to.  I am very proud of him, although he tends to goof off too much.  Blows his paycheck on booze.  Sleeps with women that try to pierce his nipples while he’s passed out drunk.  Smokes copious amounts of cigarettes.  I mess up in similar ways, although I think I’m better about covering it up.  Or I’m just less authentic about it.

He called me on Monday to tell me happy birthday.  I haven’t called him back yet.

We’re getting better at the game.

The potential for human life.  If this is taken as a moral end worth pursuing, shouldn’t future generations—those who have yet to be conceived—demand moral consideration equivalent to that which we “should” give fetuses?  There seems to be virtually the same amount of certitude-of-existence present within fetuses and those yet-to-be-conceived, after all.

Given such considerations, it seems like pro-lifers wishing to remain consistent and steadfast in their values, should be advocating sensible, sustainable environmental policies that will ensure the well-being of those yet to be born.  Critics might reply that the more immediate cases—those actual fetuses that are in dire need of advocacy—should receive more focused efforts than their hypothetical counterparts.  I would submit that this is a false dichotomy.  Potential life is potential life—while one remains more tangible than the other, both have a guaranteed presence.

I’m also kind of insufferable.  I enjoy discourse, but execute it in such a way as to make most people feel attacked.  I’m sort of neurotic about things.  I will seriously defend the musical merits of The Beach Boys.  I ramble about Derrida and Nietzsche.

At one point, these were all faults, little parts of my personality that, when they inevitably leaked out, would make me catch myself.  But then I found someone who likes these things.  And it’s not even tolerating them.  At least, I don’t think it is.  And she has attractive qualities.  Things I like and remember and smile when I think about them.  And who knows?  Maybe I’ll be able to convince myself to give this just one more shot.  Third time’s a charm, right?

Conclusion: You can tell you’ve found a good person when they like the proclivities you’re most insecure about.

Grinding coffee, I think about making my own wine.  I grew up on a farm.  I could grow grapes.  My vineyard would be small, my vintages coveted, my family—all of them—barefoot.  And I would wake up each day to the smell of dew on soil.

Cutting fruit for my cereal, I envision life as a produce grocer.  My booth would be small and tucked away on a lazy street.  It would be infamous because each piece of fruit, every single vegetable, would be hand-selected by me.  I would get up before the sunrise each day.  I would peddle my wares, joke with my regulars, and make an honest living.  And each day I would close up shop shortly after the lunch hour rush, share a fresh mango with my wife, and then make lazy afternoon love to her before my siesta.

And showering, I imagine being an entomologist.  Ants would be my specialty.  I would spend entire days watching a single colony.  Not taking notes.  Just watching.  My research would be insightful, prolific, studious and careful and loving.  And as the sun set and the ants settled into their homes underground or in hollowed trees, I would reflect on my place in this world—small, rambling, and almost harmonious with everything else around me.

If nothing else, technology at least gives us new outlets for ironic expression.