Still, Still

Maybe its the air, the dry-wet accumulation of so many intersecting droplets; the coming rain. Maybe the scent of just cleaned chalkboards, their hint of dust as the hint of heat leaps from the pavement and mingles with the teasing raindrop--a moment on the skin, and then nothing. The body is scented in nature's play. Part dusty sidewalk, part stillness. Post-performance, pre-rain.

Maybe its beyond this earth, the machinations of a grouping of planets, stirring a torment of desire inside me. Reminiscent of what I cannot yet see. What I long to embrace. What I cannot step into. Iatromantis. I belonged somewhere before. Of this I am certain.

I have just come from watching "I am Love," a film with Tilda Swinton. Her character reminded me in parts of her transformative performances in Orlando. She is, without a doubt, superb. And separate from this known fact, I have always felt a kinship with her. She seems endlessly youthful, as my spirit also attests. She is awkward and elegant in one step. Her energy is like no other. And she is so brave. And at once so weak. A characterization I have often fallen into.

The movie was very awkward at first, perhaps intentionally, as it was quite slow to develop and the characters weren't exceptionally interesting. Attractive, yes. It is Italian... but there was a moment, precisely when Tilda's character had an erotic experience with two prawns--cooked by her son's chef friend she then ends up (amid the flowers and syrups and insects and sun) lying naked with in various locations on a hilltop in Italy. Subtle, sweet, evocative. Raw. The end of the movie is superb. A fresco of finality, a slow, repetitive thud against identity. Magnifico.



Headshots tomorrow. Very exciting.

Garden Update!

I picked a cucumber today that was the length of my forearm. Nature never ceases to amaze me. And, she's quick!

Will have a wagon full of tomatoes soon. Big ones small ones heirloom ones and mystery ones. I'm reaping the rewards of planting herbal teas now. So refreshing in the heat.

Hooray!

You must have a room, or certain hour or so a day, where you don’t know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don’t know who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody, you don’t know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be. This is the place of creative incubation. At first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen.

- Joseph Campbell (mythologist, writer)

Vague and insignificant forms of speech, and abuse of language, have so long passed for mysteries of science; and hard and misapplied words, with little or no meaning, have, by prescription, such a right to be mistaken for deep learning and height of speculation, that it will not be easy to persuade either those who speak or those who hear them, that they are but the covers of ignorance, and hindrance of true knowledge.

John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1690)

little lost, little little

I have now just completed one year of a Master's degree, achieving all but one of the required courses. Having taken 6 courses over the past 10 months, I shall now move onto the thesis preparation, and prepare for my first experience teaching a conference during both the fall and winter semesters. I will admit that I'm really looking forward to teaching. I loved helping students when I was a student mentor in my undergraduate program. I still run into one sweet girl who took some advice from me, and is now very pleased in her studies.

But still, after all this work has been done, I am feeling unsettled. As if the program doesn't quite fit me somehow. I miss my old studies in classics, and wonder what can be done about it. I will not abandon a degree near completion, but this feeling will not leave me. I dream of fragments of Greek script, museum work, travel, and teaching. I have noticed my work suffering as I'm not as keen to read 3 out of the 5 texts required in classes, and find the assignments aren't getting the best out of me. hmm. Perhaps the truth is simple: I am used to A work; I'm producing A-/B+ work. And not sure what to do about it other than practice practice practice.

A professor once told me I'll know what suits me when I can't put something down I'm reading in bed. That something is hard to articulate, but I'm trying to get closer to "a subject"--at present it spans philosophy, classics, Vogue, Chinese poetry, modern poetry, Tolkien, Nietzsche, and Peter Kingsley... there are others, can't remember whats at the pile's bottom.

The problem is, the obstacle is, that the course work takes a lot out of me and I have very little left to read what I want. Seems a flawed system, this required course work... and I am disappointed in the breadth of courses having been offered in my program. I really did think English Lit was close enough to Comparative Lit. Silly me.

Update: I may have uncovered a source for my spaciness. Low blood pressure. Apparently, my family shares this delicate indulgence. I shall have to employ two hunky Egyptians to carry around a fainting couch should I be inclined to dream too heavily (while walking).

Don't distract me with your "false being"--choose an identity.

I'm only functional (re: content) in the void.

...Thanks, Lacan (and Zizek) for messing up my head.

Since I'm here: Nice bed, Z. Pretty flowers. Awesome puppetry.