35 :: subverting routine :: 4/9/01
The store's software generates an array of bar codes. A sheet of stickers emerges from the printer. Freya begins to affix them to the jewel cases of CDs, half on autopilot: there may be a mental voice guiding her through the basic routine of sticker peeling and placement, but, if so, it is so far down in her mental mix as to be inaudible. The routine is a subroutine. The first audible level in her mind is taken up with a call-and-response dialogue occupied with making sure the right labels go onto the right CDs— Quintron; Quintron. Olivia Tremor Control; Olivia Tremor Control. There's another layer that is occasionally processing the lyrics (You came / you went / my mind it got a dent) of the Beck album playing over the store PA (Stereopathetic Soul Manure, a likable combination of straightfaced yet surreal steel-guitar country tunes, juvenile tape experiments, and Sonic Youthian noise). Yet another layer considers plans for the future. Maybe I'll head down to Quimby's sometime soon and see what's new over there. It's been a while since I've read something interesting. Typanum sells its share of music magazines and zines, but there's only so many reviews of the new Tortoise album she can read before she feels like screaming. They carry The Baffler, too, which she enjoys, but there hasn't been a new one of those out in over a year.
The sound of a tingling bell. She looks up at the door. Hey, it's Thomas. She pauses in the stickering routine and waves; he waves back.
—Hey, she says. —I haven't seen you around in here in forever.
—It has been a while, says Thomas. —What'd I miss? Anything good?
—That you would like? Freya says. —Let me think. New Matmos... (Thomas makes a noncommittal gesture, a cross between a nod and a shrug) ...new Windy and Carl.
Thomas' eyebrows perk a bit at that. —I'll take a look.
—So, she says. —What have you been up to?
—Nothing, really, says Thomas.
He supposes he could tell her about his date with Lydia, the primary thing he's been thinking about for the past few days. After the show Lydia had graciously offered him a ride home. On the drive he'd rattled on about his observations about the tension he'd perceived in the music, a tension between nature and technology, and about his theory that Japanese electronic music downplays that tension, treats the two concepts as though they're integrated, as though the world contains technology and electronics as naturally as it contains trees and wind and rain. She'd listened, and asked pointed questions (Do you think that might be connected to the difference between Western and Eastern religious systems?) and when she dropped him off at his apartment there was a moment, right before he said goodbye, when they were both quiet and they just looked at one another. He'd recognized this as the moment where they would kiss if they'd kissed before, as the moment where he could conceivably kiss her. This recognition triggered a flurry of questions— should he kiss her? did he want to kiss her? what would she do if he tried to kiss her? —and this series of questions effectively snapped him out of the moment. He'd looked down at his lap instead, and when he looked back up he'd simply said I had a really nice time.
He's not sure if it's really appropriate to share this information with Freya, she's only a casual acquaintance, after all. But even if he knew her better he still might not speak of it—it's all still too new; he hasn't formalized ways of thinking about it yet. He's not sure what he wanted, or what he wants, or what terms he should use to speak about the events that have already transpired. He feels a nascent hope, but he's reluctant articulate it, because articulation will clearly define it, and a clearly defined hope is the first prerequisite for disappointment.
The other thing he's been thinking about ever since that show is collaboration: at the show, he felt like he'd witnessed three people working through an idea. He had been reminded of his thoughts on narcissism, and it had struck him that their musical conversation didn't seem self-absorbed at all: it seemed like conversation, not introspection. Their play created an architecture of connections and tensions, a field of harmonies and discords that one mind working alone could not create.
—How's the website? Freya asks.
The website. Mainly he's just been writing reviews and doing a little link gardening. All that is fine, easy. But he can't help but feel that he should use the site to do more. For a while now he's wanted to put up some long-form essays, but he can't seem to muster the inspiration to write them. Really there's enough material for an entire book, but a straightforward book doesn't really fit with what the Web can do, and he doesn't have the time to write one anyway. So he's been thinking about other projects that he could put on the site, but his thoughts on them just go around in circles until they come unfocused. Maybe working with other people could take him in new directions, useful ones. He decides to put this into the conversation.
—Actually, Thomas says, —I'm starting to think about using the site for some kind of collaborative project. If you know anybody who might be interested in putting something together...
—What kind of project?
—I don't have all the details worked out yet, Thomas says. —But I've been thinking a lot about the city in terms of its acoustic qualities; I've been thinking about doing some kind of Chicago soundmap; something like that.
—Hey, that's cool, says Freya.
—I just--if you know anyone who you think might be interested in working on some kind of project like that, let me know.
—You can put a flyer up in the store if you want.
—That's cool, Thomas says. —But I don't even know what form this thing is going to take yet.
—Uh huh, Freya says. Then she snaps her fingers. —You know who you should talk to?
—Who?
—This guy, Jakob. He's not really big into music but he's really interested in, you know, urban space? Alternate systems of mapping, or, I don't know, stuff like that? He's a grad student right now. And he's interested in sound, too; he's working on this book, it's about, like, cell phones and their use in cities.
Thomas raises his eyebrows. —Yeah, he says. —He sounds like someone I might be interested in getting in touch with. Is he in here fairly often?
—Not really, says Freya. —I'll see him, though. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I gave you his number; do you want it?
—Yeah, Thomas says. —That would be great.
—Hang on, Freya says. She hurries into the back office and comes back a minute later with Jakob's number written on a Post-It note. Thomas folds it in half, adhering its top edge to its bottom one, and sticks it in his shirt pocket.
—Let me give you my e-mail address, too, he says, and if you could pass it on the next time you see him, that would be great.
—Sure, Freya says. —No problem.
She hooks him up with a pen and a piece of scrap paper and he jots the address down. Already he can begin to feel his thoughts feeling out new directions. A new pattern of branching lights in the brain.
