Vest still fitting a bit loose. Will take a few summer thunderstorms to shrink it to a proper fit. Hopefully, these will be Bosnian summer thunderstorms. A strong vest, a strong hat, strong cheap jeans, and strong boots are very necessary for these little adventures. Along with a small pectoral cross, when one appears. For most of the last journey, I wore a small wooden one from the centuries-old Orthodox church in Sarajevo (not the 19th c. gilded and highly nationalist one). Belgrade, and by extension, Sarajevo have become, entirely accidentally, places of freedom for me. Of course, I rely on the strong local ethic of hospitality in both cases, given my nationality and religion. But it's possible to work and think there. Have downloaded Houses of Belgrade from the local library, and look forward to reading it once I slog through another Knausgaard. (I enjoyed the rebus on his name in English in the last one (my first), when characters kept breaking their noses.) The last time I read Houses of Belgrade, I was leaving Belgrade within a matter of days. Traviata at the national theatre. Walking back to the stellar writing place in Zemun afterwards and packing through the night.
I'm aware that these meditations on foreign travel might seem to most Americans like the coveting of a luxury good, but if they were to look more closely, it would likely seem to them like taking a vow of poverty and joining a utopian community. The reality is that, there, I can travel and write and think for less that it would cost to rent a place and live stateside. Conversely, though, a much richer cultural and artistic life is possible there, so in fact the intuitive American view is sort of right, although it would reject its own reasoning, if it were to make everything explicit. They are places of mental strength for me. I think of being there, and am better able to handle present difficulties. It's no exaggeration to say that existence is basically predicated on the possibility of return to such things, especially given the present circumstances.
Easter Vigil in the Night at St. Pat's. (I well remember watching the same service from the back corner of St. Sava, orthodox psalter in hand, a few years ago.) I went back to the south quasi-transept (the place to the side of the church where the bell-ringer lives), given the continuity of the Triduum, and for much of it had the entire section to myself. Read a bit of Tolstoy and John in the Koine beforehand, felt a strong connection to the narrative of the passion at points, and a bit of second sight, perhaps, at the postcommunion. Didn't light the candle for the rites after the Gospel, as much of the flame in that part of the church appeared to be coming from ushers with electric lighters. American pragmatism. On the up-side, I noticed several people carrying flame out of the church at the end of the evening, bringing the holy fire back to their apartments and houses. It seemed a common practice in at the Hungarian church in Cluj last year, but I'd never seen it at St. Pat's before. The most memorable post-Vigil event I recall was bumping into Ed Koch one year and exchanging Easter greetings. Genial fellow.
Then, on the day itself, the 10AM at the cathedral was ticketed. There's usually a standby general admission line, but I decided not to risk it, and went to the parish church, which is a few blocks from the gym. Absolutely packed, and it's a very large church. The pastor (a very nice and genial fellow) for some reason decided to devote much of his homily to singing "In your Easter bonnet...". Given the crowds, I decamped at the intercessions, and walked up to the Episcopal cathedral by Columbia, one of my most favorite buildings in the world. As I walked up the steps of the porch to get out of the cold rain, I could hear a Dixieland jazz band inside playing "In your Easter bonnet...". Hic et ubique. The ongoing American party reflected in the divine mirror, perhaps.
Stopped in at the bookstore down the block, formerly a usual haunt, just to see what the kids are reading these days. Added some items to the ever-sifting mental list, to try to track down at the libraries: a new Kant biography, a history of analytic philosophy, a transcript of D.T. Suzuki's lectures on campus, the new Tokarzuk, minor Platonov and V. Grossmann, etc. Some interesting peculiarities of the curation -- some areas drastically overrepresented, while, for example, Pynchon and Solzhenizen had substantial omissions in the shelf-oeuvre. On the plus side, a solid showing for Cioran inside the philosophy shelves.
Circumambulated the campus as I waited for evensong, and sat outside looking at the church for about an hour (absolutely immense, it's the ecclesiastical vista equivalent of Niagara Falls), then inside for evensong, which I frequently attended in my first decade in the city. Some of the same characters are still about, and observing the changes in the spirit of the place were interesting. Episcopal politics and church politics are much more liberal than the RC equivalent that serve as my OS, and while I remember the music as being careful, precise, and generally excellent (some of the best artists and conductors in the city, usually performing for a few dozen people on most afternoons), there seemed to be a general lassitude in comparison to my memories. Perhaps the quintessence of it was the appreciative wolf-whistle that sounded just after the closing notes of the postlude toccata, but several seconds before the sound had finished decaying. Politics changes forms. The change of forms changes things. That said, I was still in rapture for most of it -- in the toccata, for example, the distant upper registers sounding from deep in the nave (perhaps some from the trumpets of state) hovered above the low ostinatos like glinting flames on the edge of the sound. Absolutely magical.
So, things continue. As they continue, they seem to become thinner, and missing some of the usual notes (one concrete example might be the details lost in this repeated essay) -- some grace notes, and some missing from the main melody. The general principle for me these days is the old Shaker precept to work as if you were to live a thousand years, and as if you were to die this evening. I force myself to get into the projects that my instincts tell me should wait for more stable working situations (Hic Rhodus...), and I probably have a better argument there than the instincts.
That which we are, we are. Seek. Strive. Find. Don't yield.