Takeoff
It's going on 2AM right now, but I'm so excited. In a few hours' time I leave for Japan to see Katy and the Orient. Mark, Christoph's friend, who is charming and kind, has given me his copy of Jorge Luis Borges' "Collected Fictions." Mark and I once had a conversation about our mutual interest in living nomadic lives. His note accompanying the book reads, "AK, the stories of Borges grace the explorers of mind and earth with the occult on their journeys. Feynman was never far behind." We had earlier discussed Richard Feynman's work, "QED," which we published, and which I recently sent him. What a nice thing to do -- I've never met a guy who gave me a serious and thoughtful book of this calibre before a trip. Mark is pretty neat.
Other stuff has been happening in the past week, but it's hard to recall. I attended an amazing jazz concert with the Princeton jazz ensemble and the Julliard Jazz Orchestra. They performed the Duke Ellington Far East Suite, and the Julliard kids were just brilliant -- they actually got a standing ovation, and I was one of the first to rise. I went to a reading of Elizabeth Bishop's poetry in the area - the entire Princeton Creative Writing Program staff came out to read, which was amazing. For such an odd school, they have a superlative program in this particular discipline. Was supposed to go to the Heeb party but bailed. All of this is so scattered...I'm going to the far side of the world! I'm on vacation! Crikey.
4.27.2006
4.19.2006
The Descent of Spring
Since my last post, a lot has happened. I ate 17 Cadbury's Creme Eggs this Easter, I met another love of my life and promptly lost interest in him, and Christ rose again and saved mankind. Yes, it has been a giddy and gleeful time.
Unfortunately, only one part is true: I did convince myself that I had feelings for someone, particularly while I was sick, and drove myself nuts by alternately sobbing with angst, and putting on a brave face (i.e. nurturing a solid martyr complex). It was pretty horrible, but I attribute a fair amount to my being ill and to my own stupidity in shifting from "detached with zero expectations" to "destined to be together" in half a minute. I did realize, however, that impatience is one of my besetting sins; I despise waiting for people to respond, and I equally loathe waiting for myself to get over my own emotions. Still, I figure that these are experiences I should have undergone at age 14, and 8 years later, I'm well overdue for my sentimental education.
Other things that took place:
1. Dave Eggers came to do a local reading, which was very interesting. He's writing a new "novelized biography" of one of the lost boys of Sudan. I enjoyed his actual reading, but was suspicious about the authenticity of his voice - how can you be sure that a boy raised in Africa will employ the same intonations, metaphors, and humour of a Westerner? But Dave Eggers himself was amusing and highly appealing to the hordes of undergrads who turned out. He has an easygoing manner.
2. Reza came back from Iran. He seemed mellower than he had been for months, which is great. He’s in the midst of job applications.
3. Christoph returned from an extended trip to Hawaii, Miami, Spain, and Switzerland. We kept missing each other for about 3 days, but then as I was heading to my room after work one evening, I heard him call out “is that Adithi coming upstairs?” and felt like I found my friend all over again. I forgot how fond I am of this housemate, with his sunny outlook on life and his ginger hair spilling everywhere. Mike came over for dinner that night (soba noodles with spaghetti sauce, a vile combination), and the three of us passed the evening laughing and chatting together as we sat in the garden under the full moon. The best part was when I caught Christoph’s eye as we enjoyed a moment of private amusement at Mike’s extraordinary eloquence on F. Scott Fitzgerald. It was a sign of renewal, and it made me thankful for the days when I come back to a house filled with candlelight, shared frozen dinners, and warm conversation.
4. Took my sister to see La Traviata at the MET. It was amazing, albeit a touch too long -- every time I thought Violetta was finally going to pass, she opened her mouth and let loose another aria, which was highly irritating. But the music was exquisite. When they juxtaposed Alfredo and Violetta’s pieces in Act I (the aria called sempre libera), I was thoroughly romanced by the sweetness of the whole thing. My sister said that the experience was made better by my being there. She’s a sport.
5. Went to CT, hung out with the family, saw Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, had paroxysm of laughter, went to see Abba musical, came home. As lame as the musical’s plotline was (my mother loves Abba and it was in honour of her birthday), the songs themselves were a lot of fun. The thing with Abba is that you just can’t get away from the fact that you know the lyrics to Dancing Queen and Voulez-Vous. And as my mother’s philosophy goes: don’t fight it. So I cheered as they lustily performed Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (I mean, who doesn’t want a man after midnight?), but drew the line at I Have a Dream because it’s a fundamentally irksome ballad that makes me want to slap everyone within arm’s reach.
Little else to report. I had a drink with Bob last night, which was fun – mostly because he’s a kindred spirit (i.e. sheepish intellectual who doesn’t look blank when I make a joke) and a very kind person to boot. Work is busy but good, and spring in Princeton has restored balm to my soul – all the pink-and-white-blossom pageantry is enchanting. Although, to be perfectly frank, I’m sort of lost without the chip on my shoulder that winter misery made necessary. It’s awfully hard to maintain my usual veneer of bitter resentment towards the world when all I want to do is tuck a posy behind my ear. It’s a tough life, to be sure. ;)
Since my last post, a lot has happened. I ate 17 Cadbury's Creme Eggs this Easter, I met another love of my life and promptly lost interest in him, and Christ rose again and saved mankind. Yes, it has been a giddy and gleeful time.
Unfortunately, only one part is true: I did convince myself that I had feelings for someone, particularly while I was sick, and drove myself nuts by alternately sobbing with angst, and putting on a brave face (i.e. nurturing a solid martyr complex). It was pretty horrible, but I attribute a fair amount to my being ill and to my own stupidity in shifting from "detached with zero expectations" to "destined to be together" in half a minute. I did realize, however, that impatience is one of my besetting sins; I despise waiting for people to respond, and I equally loathe waiting for myself to get over my own emotions. Still, I figure that these are experiences I should have undergone at age 14, and 8 years later, I'm well overdue for my sentimental education.
Other things that took place:
1. Dave Eggers came to do a local reading, which was very interesting. He's writing a new "novelized biography" of one of the lost boys of Sudan. I enjoyed his actual reading, but was suspicious about the authenticity of his voice - how can you be sure that a boy raised in Africa will employ the same intonations, metaphors, and humour of a Westerner? But Dave Eggers himself was amusing and highly appealing to the hordes of undergrads who turned out. He has an easygoing manner.
2. Reza came back from Iran. He seemed mellower than he had been for months, which is great. He’s in the midst of job applications.
3. Christoph returned from an extended trip to Hawaii, Miami, Spain, and Switzerland. We kept missing each other for about 3 days, but then as I was heading to my room after work one evening, I heard him call out “is that Adithi coming upstairs?” and felt like I found my friend all over again. I forgot how fond I am of this housemate, with his sunny outlook on life and his ginger hair spilling everywhere. Mike came over for dinner that night (soba noodles with spaghetti sauce, a vile combination), and the three of us passed the evening laughing and chatting together as we sat in the garden under the full moon. The best part was when I caught Christoph’s eye as we enjoyed a moment of private amusement at Mike’s extraordinary eloquence on F. Scott Fitzgerald. It was a sign of renewal, and it made me thankful for the days when I come back to a house filled with candlelight, shared frozen dinners, and warm conversation.
4. Took my sister to see La Traviata at the MET. It was amazing, albeit a touch too long -- every time I thought Violetta was finally going to pass, she opened her mouth and let loose another aria, which was highly irritating. But the music was exquisite. When they juxtaposed Alfredo and Violetta’s pieces in Act I (the aria called sempre libera), I was thoroughly romanced by the sweetness of the whole thing. My sister said that the experience was made better by my being there. She’s a sport.
5. Went to CT, hung out with the family, saw Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, had paroxysm of laughter, went to see Abba musical, came home. As lame as the musical’s plotline was (my mother loves Abba and it was in honour of her birthday), the songs themselves were a lot of fun. The thing with Abba is that you just can’t get away from the fact that you know the lyrics to Dancing Queen and Voulez-Vous. And as my mother’s philosophy goes: don’t fight it. So I cheered as they lustily performed Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (I mean, who doesn’t want a man after midnight?), but drew the line at I Have a Dream because it’s a fundamentally irksome ballad that makes me want to slap everyone within arm’s reach.
Little else to report. I had a drink with Bob last night, which was fun – mostly because he’s a kindred spirit (i.e. sheepish intellectual who doesn’t look blank when I make a joke) and a very kind person to boot. Work is busy but good, and spring in Princeton has restored balm to my soul – all the pink-and-white-blossom pageantry is enchanting. Although, to be perfectly frank, I’m sort of lost without the chip on my shoulder that winter misery made necessary. It’s awfully hard to maintain my usual veneer of bitter resentment towards the world when all I want to do is tuck a posy behind my ear. It’s a tough life, to be sure. ;)
4.11.2006
4.09.2006
It Won't do to Dream of Caramel
This is my 100th post. I'm lying on the couch at home and Balu is lying on my stomache, so this is a shade complicated. But it's a lovely Sunday afternoon, which is what I needed, since I'm phlegmy and sad and ill. I feel like a colony of bacteria have settled in my lungs and are setting up a badminton round-robin. Current music? Damien Rice and Suzanne Vega. Listen to Damien Rice lying down on the ground, looking up at the sun through a window and all will be revealed, I promise you. There's poetry in this guy's voice -- he sounds so familiar yet as though he's singing just for you from centuries before and after your time. Being ill makes me susceptible, I guess. Some things I wanted to share:
from "The Man with the Blue Guitar" -- Wallace Stevens
XXXII
"Throw away the lights, the definitions,
And say of what you see in the dark
That it is this or that it is that
But do not use the rotten names.
How should you walk in that space and know
Nothing of the madness of space,
Nothing of its jocular procreations?
Throw the lights away. Nothing must stand
Between you and the shapes you take
When the crust of shape has been destroyed.
You as you are? You are yourself.
The blue guitar surprises you."
There are afternoons like this, which could only slightly be improved by the presence of a companion. No one spectacular. Just someone who knows the lyrics to my songs.
This is my 100th post. I'm lying on the couch at home and Balu is lying on my stomache, so this is a shade complicated. But it's a lovely Sunday afternoon, which is what I needed, since I'm phlegmy and sad and ill. I feel like a colony of bacteria have settled in my lungs and are setting up a badminton round-robin. Current music? Damien Rice and Suzanne Vega. Listen to Damien Rice lying down on the ground, looking up at the sun through a window and all will be revealed, I promise you. There's poetry in this guy's voice -- he sounds so familiar yet as though he's singing just for you from centuries before and after your time. Being ill makes me susceptible, I guess. Some things I wanted to share:
from "The Man with the Blue Guitar" -- Wallace Stevens
XXXII
"Throw away the lights, the definitions,
And say of what you see in the dark
That it is this or that it is that
But do not use the rotten names.
How should you walk in that space and know
Nothing of the madness of space,
Nothing of its jocular procreations?
Throw the lights away. Nothing must stand
Between you and the shapes you take
When the crust of shape has been destroyed.
You as you are? You are yourself.
The blue guitar surprises you."
There are afternoons like this, which could only slightly be improved by the presence of a companion. No one spectacular. Just someone who knows the lyrics to my songs.
4.08.2006
William, it was Really Nothing
Lately I feel like I've been medaling in the art of immaturity. I miss my collective group of brilliant and melancholy 22/23-year-old friends -- my privy council of people who understand (and laugh at) my constant fumbling. Right now I seem to be mis-stepping without any promise of future clarity. Especially on those occasions when I'm with someone who makes me giddy and we suddenly come upon that silent moment inevitable in any good exchange. It's as though the emotional quotient suddenly catches up and throws cold water over my ongoing need for mental stimulation. How do you reconcile both a sarcastic and a romantic nature? As far as my experience goes (about 10 yards, not far at all), it's anything but a seamless passage from banter to romance.
There are so many excellent kissing moments out there -- like in "Sleep the Clock Around" when the lead singer drones, "If you put down your pen, leave your worries behind, then the moment will come, and the memory will shine" and it just moves into this incredible synthesized instrumentation. That's a bonafide electric moment waiting to happen.
I can't remember what else I did this week, except fall ill and panic about taxes. I finally recruited Heath to help me, and then we went out to a perfectly lovely meal with Clara and Mike at a local restaurant. I haven't had a real sit-down dinner with a group of friends in ages. Later Vanessa and I met up with Bob and Jeremy for drinks. Despite the bizarre auspices under which these evenings take place, the four of us have a rather enjoyable dynamic. I can't quite put my finger on why (or maybe I'd just rather not), but we play off of each other's absurdities with relative ease. I like each of them so very much for such different reasons -- but sometimes I feel very, very young. And naive. And agitated. But happy. It's weird.
Lately I feel like I've been medaling in the art of immaturity. I miss my collective group of brilliant and melancholy 22/23-year-old friends -- my privy council of people who understand (and laugh at) my constant fumbling. Right now I seem to be mis-stepping without any promise of future clarity. Especially on those occasions when I'm with someone who makes me giddy and we suddenly come upon that silent moment inevitable in any good exchange. It's as though the emotional quotient suddenly catches up and throws cold water over my ongoing need for mental stimulation. How do you reconcile both a sarcastic and a romantic nature? As far as my experience goes (about 10 yards, not far at all), it's anything but a seamless passage from banter to romance.
There are so many excellent kissing moments out there -- like in "Sleep the Clock Around" when the lead singer drones, "If you put down your pen, leave your worries behind, then the moment will come, and the memory will shine" and it just moves into this incredible synthesized instrumentation. That's a bonafide electric moment waiting to happen.
I can't remember what else I did this week, except fall ill and panic about taxes. I finally recruited Heath to help me, and then we went out to a perfectly lovely meal with Clara and Mike at a local restaurant. I haven't had a real sit-down dinner with a group of friends in ages. Later Vanessa and I met up with Bob and Jeremy for drinks. Despite the bizarre auspices under which these evenings take place, the four of us have a rather enjoyable dynamic. I can't quite put my finger on why (or maybe I'd just rather not), but we play off of each other's absurdities with relative ease. I like each of them so very much for such different reasons -- but sometimes I feel very, very young. And naive. And agitated. But happy. It's weird.
4.04.2006
A Toast to Our Former Selves
A friend of mine recently got some bad news prior to leaving for a trip abroad. At the time I was gradually working my way through 4 years of Columbia correspondence, rereading emails that random people had written, and laughing in horror at my own responses. Freshman year I sounded like I was on acid. Either that or deliberately trying to sound like I was on acid. It's strange to see so many incarnations of yourself in succession; I reacquainted myself with the naive, the dorky, the affectionate and the acerbic versions of my college self. It was overwhelming.
But to return to my original premise, I decided that when I wrote to this friend to wish him well before his trip, I would include excerpts of emails that I sent to various people when I first went to Paris. I sound like some enchanted idiot, but that's what travel does -- and reading these at least 2 years later, I'm glad that I didn't stop myself from gushing shamelessly about being frightened yet amazed by my surroundings. It's funny to me that I'm now so uneasy about being frank about my feelings - both anger and love - but that despite living in more volatile circumstances abroad, I could articulate exactly what I wanted to say.
There are things I'm struggling to say right now, but I guess eventually they'll surface. It's like that poem by Mallarmé in which he says, "Ne crois pas qu’au magique espoir du corridor" to a fellow poet leaving his native shore. I grant the poem itself is rather more violent in character than I've given it out to be, but the line is self-sustaining. And I do think that there are some phrases, letters, telephone conversations, and even shared photographs, that contain some impenetrable truth about ourselves, no matter how we change. Perhaps it's terribly important right now that I continue to believe in being charmed.
01.17.04
...enjoy things, keep an open mind, and don't expect anything. it will be different, hard, it will be exhilarating and new and earth-shattering. That's why we left nyc and came, right? I mean, aside from our unholy craving for nutella...
01.28.04
...I've also been visiting a lot of museums, and am so moved by it all. I got oddly emotional in the Musee D'Orsay because I was seeing all these beautiful artworks that I've studied for so long, and that are like old kindly friends I finally get to meet in person. Suddenly I'm rendered speechless by their faces...
02.16.04
...good luck with papers. I have them too, but it's hard to focus on work (yes, this is me still talking) when I'm in this city. A lot of the time I'm afraid of the enormity of Paris. But then I find myself standing at street corners staring at cars go by, sensing the pulse of something beyond myself and yet within myself. I feel radiated with emotion. It's amazing...
03.04.04
...that being said, today I discovered seven different versions of myself in seven different places in Paris. Quiet, green spaces, where I stopped thinking about poetry and began living it. It's impossible not to sense the importance of just existing when you're a foreigner abroad. But then I am always abroad, aren't I?...
A friend of mine recently got some bad news prior to leaving for a trip abroad. At the time I was gradually working my way through 4 years of Columbia correspondence, rereading emails that random people had written, and laughing in horror at my own responses. Freshman year I sounded like I was on acid. Either that or deliberately trying to sound like I was on acid. It's strange to see so many incarnations of yourself in succession; I reacquainted myself with the naive, the dorky, the affectionate and the acerbic versions of my college self. It was overwhelming.
But to return to my original premise, I decided that when I wrote to this friend to wish him well before his trip, I would include excerpts of emails that I sent to various people when I first went to Paris. I sound like some enchanted idiot, but that's what travel does -- and reading these at least 2 years later, I'm glad that I didn't stop myself from gushing shamelessly about being frightened yet amazed by my surroundings. It's funny to me that I'm now so uneasy about being frank about my feelings - both anger and love - but that despite living in more volatile circumstances abroad, I could articulate exactly what I wanted to say.
There are things I'm struggling to say right now, but I guess eventually they'll surface. It's like that poem by Mallarmé in which he says, "Ne crois pas qu’au magique espoir du corridor" to a fellow poet leaving his native shore. I grant the poem itself is rather more violent in character than I've given it out to be, but the line is self-sustaining. And I do think that there are some phrases, letters, telephone conversations, and even shared photographs, that contain some impenetrable truth about ourselves, no matter how we change. Perhaps it's terribly important right now that I continue to believe in being charmed.
01.17.04
...enjoy things, keep an open mind, and don't expect anything. it will be different, hard, it will be exhilarating and new and earth-shattering. That's why we left nyc and came, right? I mean, aside from our unholy craving for nutella...
01.28.04
...I've also been visiting a lot of museums, and am so moved by it all. I got oddly emotional in the Musee D'Orsay because I was seeing all these beautiful artworks that I've studied for so long, and that are like old kindly friends I finally get to meet in person. Suddenly I'm rendered speechless by their faces...
02.16.04
...good luck with papers. I have them too, but it's hard to focus on work (yes, this is me still talking) when I'm in this city. A lot of the time I'm afraid of the enormity of Paris. But then I find myself standing at street corners staring at cars go by, sensing the pulse of something beyond myself and yet within myself. I feel radiated with emotion. It's amazing...
03.04.04
...that being said, today I discovered seven different versions of myself in seven different places in Paris. Quiet, green spaces, where I stopped thinking about poetry and began living it. It's impossible not to sense the importance of just existing when you're a foreigner abroad. But then I am always abroad, aren't I?...
4.01.2006
Vivre Sa Vie
Clearly I'm a terrible person - I don't call, I don't blog, I don't write. Theoretically, it could all part of my cunning scheme to keep you in suspense -- the minor flaw being that there's nothing in my life about which to ferment mystery. Except, of course, my secret ambition to become Sailor Moon. But that you already suspected.
Things have been incredibly busy lately, again with no particular reason. The new assistant is growing to be a huge help, but oddly enough, I continue to feel rather overwhelmed with my workload. Try telling that to the higher-ups. It's also the season for performance appraisals, which went pretty well, minus the ulcer I bore around in my stomache during the week. I finally went home one night and had Yorgo recite excerpts because I was too nervous to read them on my own. He teased me and cheered me up, but I'm still tentative about any praise that has been issued and am constantly scanning the paragraphs for latent criticism. Because when you're a prat like me, accepting constructive feedback is parallel to dental surgery.
AK in Action
1. Last Weekend! Two talks hosted by the ACLA (American Comparative Lit. Association) conference held in Princeton. One morning seminar on Renaissance Humanism and Critical Theory -- yours truly crawled out of bed and staggered across campus to be blasted by speeches on Leonardo and Lacan, Herbert and negative theology, and Petrarch in Rome. Amazing. Sitting there listening to a paper on 'The Pulley,' I felt the speaker's eloquence gradually become a material sensation that climbed my spine and fired off every neuron in my brain. I think I've forgotten the massive mental and physical stimulation of meeting someone who can not only penetrate the complicated rhetoric of poetry, but who can actually articulate his/her thoughts in a lyrical manner. I love being so easily humbled yet seduced by language.
2. Plenary talk on Humanism and Human Rights in the evening. Simon Gikandi is a brilliant, endearing man. Go see him talk if you ever get the chance. The rest of them were decent but uninspired; by the time we made it to the final speaker, the guy next to me was practically resting his head on my shoulder. Also met interesting California professor who won points by laughing at my jokes and passing on ridiculous tidbits about all the famous people present. Date material?
3. Tuesday! Discussion with Alain Badiou and Cornel West: "Is it Possible to Enjoy Personal Liberty without Collective Equality?" Clara accompanied me and sat rapt as 'Brother Badiou' rambled on (in a most systematic fashion) about his theory that we need to "bring the outside inside." An hour later, Brother West had to resurrect us from what felt like a dull funeral.
Now while Monsieur West is certainly a lively speaker, it must be noted that he relies more on histrionic flights of thought rather than substantive ideas. His sentences are the aural equivalent of jeweled boxes; they mesmerize you as you listen, but at the end of the day, they reveal themselves as being purely decorative once you open them up and discover their threadbare contents. I'd like to see him speak again if only because his aptitude for quotation and rhythmic intonation is wonderful. Plus his hornet's nest haircut is the only one I've known to successfully occupy an entire horizon line. It's practically panoramic.
4. In an effort to avoid going home to an empty house, I then wandered over to the local bookstore to read. Met an energetic youth who spent the next 40 minutes stunning me with his detailed knowledge of practically every modern poet - Eliot, Pound, Stevens, Williams, Strand, my mother...I finally purchased a book out of sheer obligation and fled home in haste, feeling the swiss-cheese consistency of my own academic foundations.
4. Wednesday! Poetry reading with Louise Glück and Yusef Komunyakaa at a local creative writing event. Hearing LG read was a shock to the system; I imagined her as having a more soothing and reflective voice. Instead, she read with a raspy tone that lent a bitterness to almost every moment.
Yusef Komunyakaa, on the other hand, was pure joy to listen to. He does have a more practised air to his performance, but I refuse to fault him for this simply because his cadences are exquisitely chosen and capable of rendering the most simple line into something that makes my pulse quicken with pleasure. At the end, as he circulated the room, he gravely shook my hand and asked if I was a poet, whereupon I flushed extensively. So much for poise.
5. Went to the Ivy with Bob, Debbie K., and some dude named Blue (married, one child - why he came, I'll never know), where we merrily ran into Heath, Clara & Mike. There was lots of dynamic-shifting over the course of the evening. We elucidated the meaning of "cock-blocking," whereupon I busily planned to incorporate this into any and every exchange for the rest of the week. Got to know Jeremy a shade better, which was lovely.
7. Thursday! Serious morning meeting regarding the fate of the art list. Very, very interesting to observe. Meet some bigwig art historians; am wowed. Feel slightly off-colour for the rest of the day, attend bizarre symposium on "Utopias" in the evening and hear Edouard Glissant. Why he read in French I'll never know, since he kept intercepting the translator's efforts with his own English renderings.
Clearly I'm a terrible person - I don't call, I don't blog, I don't write. Theoretically, it could all part of my cunning scheme to keep you in suspense -- the minor flaw being that there's nothing in my life about which to ferment mystery. Except, of course, my secret ambition to become Sailor Moon. But that you already suspected.
Things have been incredibly busy lately, again with no particular reason. The new assistant is growing to be a huge help, but oddly enough, I continue to feel rather overwhelmed with my workload. Try telling that to the higher-ups. It's also the season for performance appraisals, which went pretty well, minus the ulcer I bore around in my stomache during the week. I finally went home one night and had Yorgo recite excerpts because I was too nervous to read them on my own. He teased me and cheered me up, but I'm still tentative about any praise that has been issued and am constantly scanning the paragraphs for latent criticism. Because when you're a prat like me, accepting constructive feedback is parallel to dental surgery.
AK in Action
1. Last Weekend! Two talks hosted by the ACLA (American Comparative Lit. Association) conference held in Princeton. One morning seminar on Renaissance Humanism and Critical Theory -- yours truly crawled out of bed and staggered across campus to be blasted by speeches on Leonardo and Lacan, Herbert and negative theology, and Petrarch in Rome. Amazing. Sitting there listening to a paper on 'The Pulley,' I felt the speaker's eloquence gradually become a material sensation that climbed my spine and fired off every neuron in my brain. I think I've forgotten the massive mental and physical stimulation of meeting someone who can not only penetrate the complicated rhetoric of poetry, but who can actually articulate his/her thoughts in a lyrical manner. I love being so easily humbled yet seduced by language.
2. Plenary talk on Humanism and Human Rights in the evening. Simon Gikandi is a brilliant, endearing man. Go see him talk if you ever get the chance. The rest of them were decent but uninspired; by the time we made it to the final speaker, the guy next to me was practically resting his head on my shoulder. Also met interesting California professor who won points by laughing at my jokes and passing on ridiculous tidbits about all the famous people present. Date material?
3. Tuesday! Discussion with Alain Badiou and Cornel West: "Is it Possible to Enjoy Personal Liberty without Collective Equality?" Clara accompanied me and sat rapt as 'Brother Badiou' rambled on (in a most systematic fashion) about his theory that we need to "bring the outside inside." An hour later, Brother West had to resurrect us from what felt like a dull funeral.
Now while Monsieur West is certainly a lively speaker, it must be noted that he relies more on histrionic flights of thought rather than substantive ideas. His sentences are the aural equivalent of jeweled boxes; they mesmerize you as you listen, but at the end of the day, they reveal themselves as being purely decorative once you open them up and discover their threadbare contents. I'd like to see him speak again if only because his aptitude for quotation and rhythmic intonation is wonderful. Plus his hornet's nest haircut is the only one I've known to successfully occupy an entire horizon line. It's practically panoramic.
4. In an effort to avoid going home to an empty house, I then wandered over to the local bookstore to read. Met an energetic youth who spent the next 40 minutes stunning me with his detailed knowledge of practically every modern poet - Eliot, Pound, Stevens, Williams, Strand, my mother...I finally purchased a book out of sheer obligation and fled home in haste, feeling the swiss-cheese consistency of my own academic foundations.
4. Wednesday! Poetry reading with Louise Glück and Yusef Komunyakaa at a local creative writing event. Hearing LG read was a shock to the system; I imagined her as having a more soothing and reflective voice. Instead, she read with a raspy tone that lent a bitterness to almost every moment.
Yusef Komunyakaa, on the other hand, was pure joy to listen to. He does have a more practised air to his performance, but I refuse to fault him for this simply because his cadences are exquisitely chosen and capable of rendering the most simple line into something that makes my pulse quicken with pleasure. At the end, as he circulated the room, he gravely shook my hand and asked if I was a poet, whereupon I flushed extensively. So much for poise.
5. Went to the Ivy with Bob, Debbie K., and some dude named Blue (married, one child - why he came, I'll never know), where we merrily ran into Heath, Clara & Mike. There was lots of dynamic-shifting over the course of the evening. We elucidated the meaning of "cock-blocking," whereupon I busily planned to incorporate this into any and every exchange for the rest of the week. Got to know Jeremy a shade better, which was lovely.
7. Thursday! Serious morning meeting regarding the fate of the art list. Very, very interesting to observe. Meet some bigwig art historians; am wowed. Feel slightly off-colour for the rest of the day, attend bizarre symposium on "Utopias" in the evening and hear Edouard Glissant. Why he read in French I'll never know, since he kept intercepting the translator's efforts with his own English renderings.
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