The Casual Blog

August 19, 2010

Robert Frost and my new iPad

I’ve finally managed to memorize The Wood Pile, by Robert Frost. http://tiny.cc/zlasu It’s a strange, bleak poem, about walking through a frozen swamp and not seeing very much, except snow, trees, a bird and a decaying wood pile. Just as the narrator doesn’t really know why he keeps walking deeper into a frozen swamp, I’m hard put to explain why I went to the considerable trouble of memorizing this poem. It’s difficult to picture an ordinary situation in which anyone would voluntarily listen to a recitation with pleasure. But memorizing it entailed many many readings with close examination of every word, and through that process the poem gradually revealed a stark startling beauty.

At the end of the poem, the narrator wonders at the isolated decaying wood pile, and remarks that the person who made it must be “someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks” so as to “forget his handiwork on which he spent himself, the labor of his ax.” It may be that the laboriously created, carefully measured, woodpile is one of Frost’s poems, and that Frost is pointing up the minor tragedy of art that fails to reach its audience. He also seems to be saying that remembering can be harder than creating. It isn’t hard to see that we all constantly live in eagerly turning to fresh tasks and also, without realizing it, forgetting other valuable things.

Yesterday I turned to the fresh task of learning how to work my new iPad. It is a very pleasing little device both in form and function — light, sleek, quick, uncomplicated, but sophisticated. I got it mainly to use as a reader and a web surfer, though it may turn out that other functions, like the video viewer or some game, will turn out to be useful to me. To get started, I put some of my favorite poetry on the Kindle reader, including W.B. Yeats, Wallace Stevens, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, and Frost, thinking it would be a comfort to have them along in my travels. I also felt it would be worthwhile to always have handy some Proust, and downloaded Swann’s Way.

Within a few minutes I’d figured out how to make the Kindle reader application do some interesting things, like go to the table of contents, jump to a given page, highlight text, make a note on the text, and change the typeface of the work. This was mainly a matter of touching the screen in various ways, some of which were not immediately obvious. Experimenting with it was fun.

It’s remarkable how learning how to work new devices (sometimes hardware, but most often software) is now a constant feature of modern high tech life. In days gone by, a new device might come into my life every few months, but now it’s more like every few hours. The concept of the iPhone, and probably the iPad, includes encouraging the constant addition of more and more apps. Each app has at least a small learning curve, which consumes some amount of human energy.

Other than causing fatigue, do the apps do anything? The best thing they do is speed up information gathering. Whether the subject is world politics, scientific research, movies, or restaurants, it’s possible to get information faster. This could lead to better decisions. The problem is that our brains can only go so fast and only hold so much. Like John Henry racing to put down rails against the steam hammer, we can’t possibly keep up with the pace of our powerful computers.

So we have to figure out when to say, basta! On any given day, we have to be careful about turning to too many fresh tasks and forgetting what is really valuable. We have to quit downloading apps all the time and read something beautiful and profound, like Frost or Proust. Small, slow, and error-prone as our brains are, we need to protect and care for them and nourish them well.

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August 15, 2010

A musical dinner party

We had a small dinner party on Saturday night for some old friends. Sally put a lot of thought and work into the food, and I organized the music, including both recordings and some of my own piano playing. I’ve come to think that a musician’s work is inherently social. This isn’t completely obvious, since so much of the work consists of individual, solitary practice. It is possible to enjoy music alone, although even this has a social aspects, since it involves interacting with the musical ideas of others (composers, editors, previous performers).

But a musician’s conception that doesn’t get communicated is not quite complete. It’s like a meal prepared with infinite care which no one tastes. Listeners complete the musical circuit that runs from abstract idea to human emotion. Just as a meal is just an abstraction if it isn’t eaten, a musical conception isn’t really music until someone listens.

So I was happy that our friends let me share with them some of my musical ideas regarding Chopin and Debussy. I played the Minute Waltz, the D flat Nocturne (Op. 27, No. 2), and Clair de Lune, and managed to make some beautiful sonorities. There were some memory lapses, which I was not pleased about, but I recognized them as minor and didn’t get discombobulated.

Having listeners always changes the musician’s mental processing. It can cause greater inspiration and concentration, but it also causes greater stress, and sometimes system failure. The possibility of losing one’s grip and falling is part of the business of climbing, and the possibility of losing one’s place is part of the business of musical performance. It is strange, though, when it happens. The keys suddenly look completely unfamiliar, and the hands are paralyzed with uncertainty. It’s a terrible feeling. But it happens, and the only thing to do is move on. Despite the problems, I was glad I made the effort, and grateful to my listeners for completing the musical circuit.

Sally’s cooking was delicious, and there was plenty of laughter and lively conversation. Tony Judt, the historian and author of Postwar (a great book about the aftermath of WW II) who died of ALS last week, once said that talking was the point of adult experience. It certainly is a great pleasure to talk with kindred spirits about things we care about passionately.

At work last week I took a short class on the subject of “crucial conversations,” which was about how to communicate better when stakes and emotions are high. The class included a little film by a middle schooler who replicated Solomon Asch’s conformity experiment. In the experiment, the subject is told that there is a test of visual perception, and asked to compare the length of one straight line to another. The subject hears several people who are secretly in on the experiment give answers that are clearly wrong, and then, most often, agrees with the clearly wrong answer. The point is, most people go along with the group, even when they think the group is wrong. Those who are willing to trust their own perceptions and buck the group are a minority.

Why does this happen? Is it intellectual insecurity? The fear of being ostracized? It’s possible to imagine a certain evolutionary advantage might accrue to those that maintained stable groups with uniform, though wrong, ideas, so that their band was more effective in hunting, say, the woolly mammoth. But it’s also possible that a huge evolutionary disadvantage from group think that prevented admitting and addressing such global problems as the disastrous war on drugs or global warming from CO2 emissions.

Whether we admit it or not, we all struggle with the pressure to conform to the group, but some of us put up more of a fight than others. Our friends would probably be in the minority of Asch’s test subjects that was willing to go against the grain and voice their true thoughts. It makes for much more lively conversation. Before we knew it, four hours had flown by, and it was time to say good night.

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August 14, 2010

Good wine food and a note on spinning

Last night Sally and I tried a new “wine restaurant” in Cameron Village called Cafe Caturra. I wasn’t entirely sure what a wine restaurant was, but they pulled off the neat trick of creating (at least for me) a natural, comfortable new category. A young waitress greeted us and told us we could sit anywhere (it wasn’t crowded) and order food, but we might first want to stop by the bar and choose a glass of wine.

The bar was tended by a tall, friendly guy who showed the wine-by-the-glass choices — ten or so whites and as many reds. As soon as we expressed interest in one of the Chardonnays, he produced a taste of the wine, which was buttery and delightful, and we happily ordered a glass. Then we found a table and ordered — a veggie panini for me and a little pizza for Sally. These were simple, hearty, and delicious. I liked the servers and the artsy bistro look of the place. I wasn’t crazy about the background music — hard rock, my least favorite genre — but it wasn’t overwhelming.

The music was several times louder at my two spinning classes at Rapid Fitness earlier in the week. Sally asked me how I liked it, and I told her that I liked the second one better, when I knew to bring ear plugs. These were my first ever spinning experiences, and I was a little anxious going in, as with anything new. The only thing I knew about spinning was that it involved riding a stationary bike, which seemed like such a simple idea that I had trouble believing people would give it a particular name or do it together. Since it had a name and a following, I figured there were also rules and norms, and of these I knew nothing. Was it possible to screw up spinning? I didn’t know, and since this was a group activity, I worried just a little.

Fortunately I managed to get to class a few minutes before the 6 am start time and have a brief orientation chat with Paul, the teacher. He showed me how to set up the bike adjustments and gave me the lowdown on bike shorts and shoes. He also recommended that I pick a bike near the fan, because we were going to be sweating. He suggested that since I was new, I might find at points that I needed to gear back a little from his recommended intensity. I thought this was both mildly insulting and probably wrong, since I couldn’t see hnow a stationary bike could be all that serious a fitness challenge. But boy, was he right.

A few minutes later a group of eight or so had assembled. Paul put on a microphone, fired up the dance music, and told us to get going. For the next hour he combined straightforward coaching (“now, crank it up”), cheerleading (“you’re doing great!”), and a story line about a bike ride over three mountains (“the group ahead is looking back and sees you’re gaining on them”). After twenty minutes my heart was pounding, I was drenched in sweat and considering the real possibility that I would not make it through a full hour. Following Paul’s tip, I eased back a little, then found some more energy, and ramped back up. At the end of the class, even my shoes were soaked. As my heart rate got back to normal, I noticed an unusual mellow, light feeling — the endorphins of happiness. I did a few minutes of yoga breathing and stretching, and felt really good.

So, spinning turned out to be a kick-butt workout and more fun than expected. I considered whether my well-settled idea that I was not the sort of person who likes exercise classes might be simply wrong. At any rate I was happy to find a new activity to vary the mix of my morning exercising. It’s good to change things up.

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August 7, 2010

First Friday

Last night was First Friday, Raleigh’s monthly celebration of its downtown food, music, and art scene. Despite the heat wave, thousands of people were out. At Moore Square, there was a two-girl circus act in which one lay on her back, legs raised, and the other got on top and balanced in various ways with a big smile. In City Market, there was an oldies rock band, and the listeners were mostly middle-aged. But at Art Space, there was a thick crowd of twenty-somethings, many with unsettling tattoos.

Sally and I had dinner at Gravy, which features reliable Italian comfort food in a hip brick-walled and oak package. Among other things, we talked about the problem that large food portions served in most restaurants pose for American eaters. Partly because of too many business meals recently, I’d again picked up three pounds I didn’t want to carry about. This inspired my latest eating experiment: cutting off about a third of my food before beginning to eat, and leaving that third on the plate at the end. The eggplant pie (thin breaded eggplant with marinara and ricotta) was really tasty, but more than I needed, and I’m sure I’d have eaten it all if I hadn’t established a visible stopping place.

I was taught as a child not to leave food on my plate, which was supported with the moral note that children were starving in Africa. It did not occur to me until much later that the tragedy of starving children was not going to be mitigated by over-eating, which would itself cause obesity, illness, and premature death. But changing those early ingrained eating habits requires more than recognizing their lack of justification; you have to replace them with other, better, habits. We’ll see if this cut-a-third system works.

After dinner we looked in some galleries and then strolled back to our neighborhood. We stopped at Second Empire and had cocktails in their classic bar. It turns out that stop lights that are mistimed and clog traffic are one of Sally’s pet peeves, and we discussed them for a while. We got back to our building around eleven. Just a few steps from our door, in front of the Still Life club, there was a lively scene, with girls with high heels, long legs, and very short black dresses coming or going. Sally noted as she took Stuart out for his last pee of the day that she wanted to have another look at those dresses.

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August 4, 2010

Benjamin Franklin, my hero

Benjamin Franklin is my favorite founding father. There are chapters in the lives of others that I admire — Washington’s bravery, Jefferson’s eloquence, Madison’s political vision — but even these giants had glaring flaws and failures. But Franklin’s life as a whole is extraordinary, with many varied chapters — printer, author, scientist, inventor, politician, revolutionary, diplomat. He was, truly, a Renaissance man.

I’ve been reading, or re-reading, his Autobiography. I have a memory of reading it as a sixth grader, but the book must have been a simplified and expurgated children’s version. Franklin’s writing is mostly plain and direct, not much concerned with literary effect. His writing hurries toward his main objective, which is to tell what he has learned about how to live. He believes unequivocally in the virtue of hard work, honesty, frugality, and temperance. He very much wants to communicate the value of these habits and attitudes. But he does not appear dour or gloomy. Rather, he seems mostly cheerful. He strikes me as lively and always curious, a person who enjoyed both people and ideas, who had fun.

How did he manage to be so accomplished and productive? I think a large part of it was due to the old-fashioned virtues he promotes, like diligence and honesty. The man worked very hard and mostly kept to the straight and narrow. But another quality, which he does not (at least so far as I’ve read) discuss, was also important: unselfish caring. Franklin cared about other people, both as individuals and as communities, and dedicated much of his life to helping them. He was generous with his gifts. That generous spirit made him a happy, productive person.

In the Autobiography, Franklin does not conceal his moments of weakness and mistakes. He’s human — but a really remarkable human. I’ve been realizing how much his example impressed me as a child and influenced my development. For a role model, one could do much worse.

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August 1, 2010

Fear, courage, and the costs of misunderstanding 9/11

This week I heard an NPR report on the U.S. Army’s recruiting station in Philadelphia called the Army Experience Center. It offers video war games and helicopter simulators to prospective recruits, and it sounded entertaining for adolescent males. The report suggested that it had been a great success in getting kids to sign up. It would, of course, be unacceptable to say straight out that war is fun and give this as a reason for enlisting, but the Experience Center has found a workaround to that dilemma. It sends the message of fun without saying it.

There’s probably no way to persuade every teenager that war is something to avoid if at all possible. Even with the fullest possible disclosure, it isn’t possible for a non-combatant to fully comprehend the shock and horror of battle, or to appreciate completely the resulting trauma. Adolescents are in general both inexperienced and eager for adventure. So an Army Experience Center devoted to the sights, sounds, and smells of exploding and dismembered comrades would probably not dissuade all potential recruits. But that sort of full disclosure would be more appropriate, and more fair, really, to those being asked to consider sacrificing their lives.

The Army Experience Center not only exploits the desire for adrenalized fun, but also the more noble aspiration to be courageous in a righteous cause. We all like to think we’d be willing to stand up to a fearsome enemy, and we’re all proud to confront and overcome our fears. Few of us ever test ourselves in mortal combat, but we cultivate little bits of courage in lower risk activities. That’s one reason people like scary movies: it’s a safe way to experience blasts of adrenalin and demonstrate courage. Some sports do the same.

But the longing for excitement and nobility is the mother’s milk of demagogues. Fear mongering is the time honored way to motivate choices that become policy disasters. People love to be frightened, and to imagine a heroic solution. This explains the most politically powerful fear narrative of the past decade, which is now known simply as 9/11. I originally thought 9/11 just meant a horrible crime by a handful of religious fanatics, and I still think that’s what it should mean. But the term became shorthand for an existential threat conceived of as a powerful, organized force capable of destroying the American way of life. Despite the lack of connection to objective reality, this 9/11 idea has transformed American life. We view ourselves as under siege by radical Islamic bombers. There are, no question, a few such crazies about. But our response has been massively disproportionate, at an enormous cost, in money spent and lives lost.

Last week the Washington Post reported on the vast spy bureaucracy that we have created and paid for with our tax dollars. There are 1,271 government organizations and 1,931 private companies that work on counterterrorism, homeland security, and intelligence in some 10,000 locations. Since 2001, in the D.C. area, 33 complexes for top-secret intelligence work have been built or are under construction, with square footage almost equalling three Pentagons. There are an estimated 854,000 people with top-secret security clearances — more people than live in Washington. Every day the National Security Agency intercepts nearly two billion separate e-mails, phone calls, and other communications.

Never mind the lurking civil liberties concerns for the moment, and let’s just talk about money and safety, costs and benefits. Obviously the cost of all this is huge. So what do we get in return? That’s classified, of course. Based on press reports, though, it appears that we don’t get much for our money. We hear now and again that an inept fanatic or little band of them has been arrested, but that’s about it.

According to Nicholas Kristof of the NY Times, “The war in Afghanistan will consume more money this year alone than we spent on the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, the Mexican -American War, the Civil War, and the Spanish -American War — combined.” In short, this war is stunningly expensive, and is contributing to enormous budget deficits. It seems fair to ask whether the money and lives we’ve expended have made our country any safer, or have any prospect of doing so. It seems reasonable to consider whether our violence is simply driving the recruitment efforts of the fanatics who hate us. And it also seems worth reconsidering whether the 9/11 threat — that is, a threat of existential proportions that justifies a military response — actually exists.

But the 9/11 fear narrative is still very strong. In recent weeks public support for war in Afghanistan has dropped, but there’s still a taboo against discussion of the fear mongering at the roots of the war. Confronting it would involve unsettling some cherished beliefs, which would surely result in accusations of lack of patriotism. Fantasies of courage will not accomplish anything. Addressing this deep problem will take real courage.

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July 25, 2010

Water skiing and fun, healthy, ethical food

My shoulders are aching from the fun we had yesterday skiing on Falls Lake. Ken and Carol took us out, along with their friends Ken and Kristen, on their plush and powerful ski boat. Moving over the water at relatively high speed may be the ideal way to enjoy the outdoors in the middle of a massive heat wave. I hadn’t water skied since I was twelve or so, but had vivid memories — the smell of gasoline, the anxiety as the boat worked into position, the sudden roar of the engine, the jerk of the rope, and the thrill of a transformation — water going soft to hard, something on which you can travel upright.

Ken encouraged us to try his wake board, which he said was easier than skis. I decided to give it a shot, based on my rule of thumb to always accept an offer to try something new if it looks like it could be fun and isn’t illegal, immoral, or seriously dangerous. Of five tries, I crashed and burned in the first three, came close to getting up on four, and bombed again on number five. At that point, I decided to revert to skis. I hated to admit defeat with the wake board, but it was unclear whether I was on the verge of success or still far from it, and I did not feel good claiming any bigger share of boat time.

Happily, I could still manage to ski. The attempt was a learning experience: I learned that for me it isn’t easier than skis, and that to get securely out of the water I need to do something different from what I was doing. Later, while Carol drove, Ken demonstrated a hydrofoil device, a board with a seat above and a metal extension below so that the board came two or three feet above the water. It looked both bizarre and fun, but Carol said it took many tries to get the hang of it.

Sally and I got back to the apartment shortly before eight and discovered we had a yen for Thai food within walking distance, so we had dinner at Thai Phoon on Glenwood. We ordered two different spicy garlic tofu dishes from a good array of vegetarian options. Just as we were starting to wonder why the food hadn’t arrived, our server showed up to apologize for the delay. To make up for it, she said the soup was on her. A nice gesture.

We continued our discussion of the mystery of unhealthy eating and resistance to vegetarianism. Why do so many people put so much of so many things in their bodies that make them fat and shorten their lives? Could it be lack of knowledge, when good information is so readily available? Most of us would never consider fueling our cars with anything other than standard quality gasoline, so how can we stand to put any old thing in our irreplaceable bodies? It can’t be explained based simply on calculated pleasure-seeking, since there are so many wonderful and interesting plant-based foods.

And how can so many thoughtful, decent, well-meaning people tolerate the massive cruelty of industrialized slaughter houses that turn living animals into dead meat? Surely most of us respect the integrity of individual members of other animal species and would never consider intentionally torturing them. So how can we stand the cruelty? I do not know. But I know each individual is capable of change for the better, because of my own journey. There’s still hope for a healthier, more ethical society. If it comes, it will be through many small, thoughtful, individual choices. Like spicy garlic tofu.

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July 24, 2010

A ballet dress rehearsal

As part of our contribution to the Carolina Ballet, we’re sponsoring the pointe shoes of one of the dancers. Ballet is not ballet without pointe shoes, and professional dancers go through them so quickly that they become a major budget item. The ballerina we’re sponsoring, Lola Cooper, invited us to a dress rehearsal last Thursday for a program where she had a significant solo.

It turned out that Sally and I were the only non-company people there. The rehearsal was in Fletcher, a small but elegant hall, where we had the best seats in the house. It’s rare to see performers in the state of being in between simple practice and performance. From my high school days at the N.C. School of the Arts, I was familiar with the basic ideas, but it was interesting to see how these artists used the precious time when the show is imminent. The dancers at times left off steps and did simple blocking, getting a feel for the surface and space of the stage, the lights, and their costumes. Ricky Weiss shouted a few specific directions during the run throughs, and after each piece went on stage to discuss refinements.

While we waited for Lola’s piece, we talked with our friend Ginny about other dancers struggling to succeed as artists and to get by. For those just starting out, the wages are tiny, and for the more experienced, they are low. There’s a huge disconnect between the inherent value of the artistry of these professionals, the amount of physical and emotional effort required for their art, and the economic rewards. It’s depressing that their brilliant work is priced at a fraction of that of, say, professional baseball or football players (or doctors, accountants, or lawyers). For those of us who care about ballet, it’s a reminder that we are a struggling minority, while the majority places little value on the art.

At the same time, the disconnect is a reminder that money is far from the only reason for work. Artists almost by definition are pursuing something outside the realm of the senses, something beyond the everyday. They explore these other realms and share with the rest of us their discoveries. These deeper levels of feeling and meaning have no well-developed markets — there’s no effective system of pricing them in dollars. But humans have engaged in this type of artistic commerce for thousands of years, and they keep on doing it. This is an admirable characteristic of the species, and a cheering fact. This does not, however, mean we shouldn’t worry about getting our dancers a living wage. It’s in our best interest that they be well nourished, well clothed, in safe quarters,with reliable transportation, and with enough left over to have some fun. Happy, healthy dancers are good for us.

At the rehearsal, Ricky introduced us to his wife and prima ballerina Melissa Podcasy, and I felt really honored. I’ve been very moved by so many of her great performances over the years (among others, Juliet, Carmen, the wife in the Kreutzer Sonata, the woman who yearns in Carmina Burana). We talked a bit about our cats. At the pauses, she worked with the performers.

Lola’s piece, from Balanchine’s Raymonda, was last. She came out of the gate very strong. Her jumps were big, and she had great quickness and speed. Her solo was long and arduous, and after several minutes the strain was showing. We talked for a few minutes afterward, when she was still breathing hard, and she was thinking about improvements. She’ll be great.

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July 17, 2010

A bunion, a birthday, and an edible work of art

While we were at the class at the Carolina Ballet studio last week, at one point Peggy Severin-Hansen sat on the floor beside me and did some work on her feet. We’ve been watching her for many years as she rose through the company ranks to become a soloist, and we just love her dancing. Having the chance to see her working on the bandages on her toes was intimate, like being in the family. I thought of sharing with her that I too have foot problems (a bunion) but thought better of it. She probably wouldn’t have appreciated the comparison.

One of the problems of a bunion, in addition to discomfort, is that it isn’t a good conversational topic. Other people’s health problems are usually uninteresting, but not all are equally off-putting. There’s no particular stigma to talking about knee problems, wrist problems, or back problems. But bunions are generally an older person’s issue. Who likes to think about getting old? Not me. I do, however, now understand why there is a section for Dr. Scholl’s foot care products in the pharmacy. It’s become one of my favorite sections.

As of yesterday, I know how it feels to be 55 years old. I hate to make a big deal of birthdays, but I’m struck by how big a number this is. It is clearly no longer the early fifties. It is old enough to be a parent to two full-grown adults, and in theory old enough to be a grandparent.

But I feel young! Both in good ways (plenty of energy and enthusiasm) and not-so-good ways (areas of uncertainty and insecurity). In many ways, I’m healthier and happier than I was in my twenties. I never completely lose sight of the possibility that there could be a piano hanging over my head and about to drop, in the form of a serious illness or random accident. But with enough time and some good luck, perhaps I’ll someday look back over many years and think how young I was in 2010, but how I still feel remarkably young, all things considered. Of course, this may turn out to be my apogee.

To celebrate the day, Sally got us a table at Second Empire, one of our favorite restaurants, and we walked there from our apartment. It’s a restored grand old residence with elaborate ornamentation, and very traditional in a way. But it avoids being stuffy with eclectic art, jazz, a great staff and highly imaginative food. Our server was Katrina. She was lively, smart, and friendly, and completely undaunted when I told her that we were vegetarians and wanted them to create something special for us. She assured us they liked vegetarians and would enjoy the challenge to their creativity. Music to my ears!

In fact, everything on the menu looked great except the animals, and our only suggestions were that there be pasta and perhaps a Spanish theme. The dish that arrived had rigatoni and spices, with a unique combination of textures and tastes. It was excellent! For dessert, I planned to sample Sally’s cake, but they brought me delicious ice cream with a candle in it and a happy birthday message written on the plate in chocolate. When we got the check, I thought they’d accidentally undercharged us, since there was just one main dish listed. When I asked Katrina, she assured me that they’d considered the dish that we shared to be one. Truly, this a great and wonderful restaurant.

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July 15, 2010

Ballet class and open source

This week Sally and I went over to the Carolina Ballet studio at lunch time and sat in on a class taught by Ricky Weiss. We needed to return a borrowed DVD, and also to meet Lola Cooper, a dancer whose shoes we’d decided to pay for. We sat in front of the class close to the first line of dancers, which felt awkward at first. I wondered if we would be a distraction or otherwise be inhibiting. I would certainly feel ill at ease practicing the piano in front of strangers.

I gradually realized that our presence mattered little if at all. The dancers were deeply focused on their work. Their dress was varied, with some in leotards, some in sweats, some in shorts. It was, of course, an attractive group — youthful and graceful. Also remarkably strong and powerful.

Weiss didn’t have to say very much to direct the dancers. A couple of comments, a couple of gestures, and he’d have the dozens of dancers moving in a new complex pattern in unison. There is, of course, a ballet vocabulary of movement that has a long history, in which all these professionals have long been schooled. But the complex combinations of movements were demanding. There were, not surprisingly, struggle and mistakes.

Practice makes perfect. This aspect of ballet is very like classical music. The musician’s performance is the net of hours and years of diligent practice, considering each tiny detail, shoring up each possible point of failure, developing the mind and body to serve a particular musical message. It takes repetition, with the challenge of somehow avoiding mindless repetition. I think of practicing the piano as a tool for exploring something inside that is otherwise unreachable, for connecting with both the deeper self and something greater than the self. But it also is a discipline that looks toward the future, and the possibility of greater transcendence, paid for by hard, diligent effort.

One important difference from music was the social aspect of ballet class. The dancers worked very hard, but there was also laughter. A few times, they applauded for the extraordinary sequences of their colleagues. At one point, Weiss directed the dancers to spin and do enormous hurdling leaps towards the corner where we sat. Teams of three dancers at a time came flying at a high rate of speed directly towards us. I tried to stay cool, but I was aware that a small miscalculation by one of them could result in serious injury — to us! They came close. Ballet is more dangerous than you normally think.

After the class, we met Lola. In the class, she showed grace and powerful technique, and in conversation, she was poised and confident. She told us about her early enthusiasm for horses, her six years as a student at the American Ballet school, and her time in Seattle. Along with seeking her pursuit of artistic excellence, she’s also a communications major at N.C. State.

She asked what we did, and I told her a little about my work with open source software. I tried out on her my idea that open source methods are actually close to how a ballet is made. A choreographer borrows freely, taking preexisting ideas from all available sources, and modifies those materials to make something new. It’s very similar to the method of open source software developers. Lola didn’t appear to buy it, but I still think the idea has merit. She invited us to see her do a solo in a couple of weeks, which should be fun.

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