Actual message: youtube.com/watch?v=wWhrs0gJsps&
The event still has the power to reveal.
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I once read a fun interview with a seasoned wedding photographer, who talked about how he can always tell which marriages are going to last and which ones aren’t. It’s the way the bride and groom act around each other, apparently. Looking bored during each other’s speeches is another key tell. More on that shortly.
international public law
Reading the think-pieces around the two big conflicts can be a bit dispiriting. Having become a commentator, or a publicist, or whatever they're called these days, the writers write pieces saying what the law of nations should be, and then use them for partisan purposes.
The law of nations is precisely what nations have done under necessity, and whatever inferences you can draw from that to the present, with the presumption that things should remain the same, and parties should honor their agreements. But everyone always acts according to necessity. You can't bind a nation in a Lockean or moral-contract sense. Nations feel no guilt, and treaties are frequently "un-signed" these days.
If you're trying to make an argument for an extension of existing law, you're better off trying to predict what nations will agree to, and then inflect that a bit, rather than making an argument about what the law says in itself, so that you can then flog the other side with it if they take the other course. Eventually, that diminishes the power of the idea of international law, which is the most valuable part of international law. It took centuries to build this up, and a lot has been lost in the last five years alone.
Unlike the law of a nation, if the nations don't presently observe a certain precept, that precept no longer exists as a principle of international law.
The law of nations is precisely what nations have done under necessity, and whatever inferences you can draw from that to the present, with the presumption that things should remain the same, and parties should honor their agreements. But everyone always acts according to necessity. You can't bind a nation in a Lockean or moral-contract sense. Nations feel no guilt, and treaties are frequently "un-signed" these days.
If you're trying to make an argument for an extension of existing law, you're better off trying to predict what nations will agree to, and then inflect that a bit, rather than making an argument about what the law says in itself, so that you can then flog the other side with it if they take the other course. Eventually, that diminishes the power of the idea of international law, which is the most valuable part of international law. It took centuries to build this up, and a lot has been lost in the last five years alone.
Unlike the law of a nation, if the nations don't presently observe a certain precept, that precept no longer exists as a principle of international law.
comparison
Imagine moving to a small town in America in the 1950s. The town is distant from the capital city, and has its own distinct culture. You arrive in your wood-paneled station wagon, and ask around about employment. After some prying, people begin to talk about who the powerful people are in the different companies, who you should strike up friendships with, do favors for, etc. You ask about simply applying at the offices, and they give you a sort of sideways smile.
That's the way things are now when looking for a white-collar position, and to some degree, even for blue-collar work. It's not the way it was twenty years ago, so I have to assume that it's even more distinct from the paradigms of early 20th century American life. And no one talks about it, for obvious reasons. One's chances might be significantly damaged if one were to suggest that "networking" might be a euphemism for a way of working that wouldn't have been unfamiliar to the criminal syndicates of a generation ago.
Focus your mind on the thing itself, which has a reality distinct from the pragmatic social practices that society uses to structure itself. We weren't put here just to get by -- the point of your existence is to do something real.
That's the way things are now when looking for a white-collar position, and to some degree, even for blue-collar work. It's not the way it was twenty years ago, so I have to assume that it's even more distinct from the paradigms of early 20th century American life. And no one talks about it, for obvious reasons. One's chances might be significantly damaged if one were to suggest that "networking" might be a euphemism for a way of working that wouldn't have been unfamiliar to the criminal syndicates of a generation ago.
Focus your mind on the thing itself, which has a reality distinct from the pragmatic social practices that society uses to structure itself. We weren't put here just to get by -- the point of your existence is to do something real.
Another late night, and into the morning. Sufficient is the day -- and occoasionally its appurtenant hours.
What I thought was a substantial muscle twinge from the run seems to have mended surprisingly quickly. But it's close enough to the joint that discretion might be the better part of valor.
Gently down the stream. The ramparts of Elsinore are no place for tomfoolery.
Tried to get back to the early runs yesterday. The strays proved amiable and friendly, and there was much less dust on the river path, but a bit of uneven pavement has likely put an end to those adventures before breakfast for the balance of this stay. In context, I've successfully negotiated the same in Mostar and Bucharest for months at a time, so this isn't the UWS entitlement-happy indignant call to the city about a stray tree root. My own error, of course, the end of the run was a bit late here, so I was trying to negotiate the early office crowd at the time. One can be a proficient trail runner, and one can be a proficient city runner, but proficiency in trail conditions in the city takes real skill and care.
Up past two AM on various tasks. Sufficient is the day, but sometimes a bit of stoppage time is required.
The center is most definitely that discipline of the enlightenment that one from the east would associate with national socialism, and one from central europe would associate with the commissars of the historical dialectic. Neither would be correct, of course. But that is the way. The ineffable lightness of being might work in Prague or Warsaw, but in the lands of the south, one must steer a straighter path. Perhaps the same danger that Gauguin decided to make a virtue. Southlands.
Sometimes, I have the impulse to find a room and just read an Iris Murdoch novel from start to finish. Usually, I channel this into reading something more productive, such as a philosopher writing about philosophy rather than a philosopher writing mass-market fiction.
It's good to understand that we sometimes pine for senses of things, not the things themselves.
Interesting -- the country to the east is livecasting their big classical music festival (which would be well outside the budget for this peregrination, were I there).
I've been very miserly with my ticket purchases. The general theory has been good theatre and music for $5-$8 per night. I remember, also in the country to the east, perhaps my first stay there, there was a classical concert I very much wanted to hear -- the pianist had been a close friend of S. Richter, and she had come to prominence by winning the competition in the hall in which she was performing, and now returned to it at the end of her performing career. But it was just a bit over 20 Euros. I did make a point of noticing the hour when it happened, though -- I was staying less than a mile away, and I listened to a Richter performance.
Something to do with the meaningfulness of sacrifice, perhaps. Marking the time.
One good thing about the last country: Sbux at 1990s prices. $2.50, and then sitting and reading for a couple of hours in a bright, air-filled room with interesting things outside the window. Unlike the country to the east, where an Americano would have set me back over $6.
It's not loyalty to the brand, or the material substance of the brew (except for the fact that I'm more confident about the hygiene of preparation and the source of the beans), it's genuinely having the place in the city where you can get a coffee in a fresh paper cup from the counter, watch them pour it, and then sit in a bright, airy room for an hour or two and read. (While everyone around is insta-telegramming their milkshakes.)
The local custom in this country, the southern coastal country of the old republic, and the mostly Muslim nation just to the north is small, dim airless rooms, or close patios with a lot of shade and greenery and cigarette smoke, where coffee is served in mugs. It's a legitimate form of comfort. Hygge, perhaps.
But it is not my way. And I am not for all waters.
In the darker places of the region, you can understand the agnosticism of the cities vis a vis East and West. The point is to get to the light, and the work of the day is to get closer to the light, and transmit more of the light. Faced with a decison between the resources of a distant superpower and the connection to a regional center of civilization and and culture, whatever the political alignment of that city, perhaps part of the deal is that choosing the first option means that spiritually, the place will have to make do for itself. Sufficient is the day. No simple highway.
Taking things on a simple East--West dichotomy in this part of the world is like reading a roadmap when planning a hiking trip. There's also the topological factors to consider. Elevations. De profundis. In situ, these things mean much more than the reality suggested by the simple colored lines.
the gauntlet
The native American tribes sometimes used a punishment called the gauntlet--they would force the prisoner to traverse, in parallel, two lines of people attacking them. Some tried to run, and were generally unsuccessful once the first solid blow was landed (at least according to the historical novels of my youth). Similarly, some tried to single out one of the attackers; this usually worked in the novel, but I have my doubts as to how it might have worked out in the field.
Having traversed a few ritual rites of training and passage that resemble the practice, though, I'm beginning to have my doubts as to whether I understood the nature of the exercise, reading novels in the wilderness about the wilderness. (Yes, that was our practice.) Perhaps the purpose of the exercise wasn't to punish the dangerous enemies of the tribe, but to identify them.
Having traversed a few ritual rites of training and passage that resemble the practice, though, I'm beginning to have my doubts as to whether I understood the nature of the exercise, reading novels in the wilderness about the wilderness. (Yes, that was our practice.) Perhaps the purpose of the exercise wasn't to punish the dangerous enemies of the tribe, but to identify them.
I've consciously followed a sort of geometric pattern in these Balkan explorations, and the correlative to this, just as the proportion and length of the fretted string has a correlative in sound and the tension of the harmonic, is that I now have an inner attunement of sorts, pining for the next step in the journey. With autumn, thinking about the northern cities, the theatres, the music. Not as ends in themselves, but it's easier to work and think when you're going to a production of Hamlet that night that has more than a parochial sensibility, and is being staged in the context of the work at the best European theatres. (That said, a truly great production of Hamlet would only have its parochial sensibility, and it would have that sensibility completely.) So I pine for paths, not places. and with the coming of autumn, it's the thoughts of the north, and the cities. God willin' and the crick don't rise.
The European project is the basic attunement of this journey. It would be much less costly to wander the resorts of the south, or the ancient temples of Asia, but I am clinging rather tenaciously to a few lines of thought and work in the West. Listening to the consecration bells broadcast every morning, to a handful of souls, from old cities and colleges to the north. It would be possible to decamp for awhile deep into the East -- a few major philosophers quietly did that after ww2, and focused on translating the sensibility of their work, but they were masters, and had their own work well in hand. We of the West do well to keep to the West, or at least as close as circumstances allow. First, keep the paths of the mind alive and functioning. While making the occasional journeys of discovery.
Very strange LNOP. Extended, maudlin sendoff for a well-connected soloist retiring in her 40s, and then someone apparently thought it would be a good idea to turn a comedian loose on the organ between the national anthem and the song of fellowship. If memory serves, the latter used to begin without the orchestra. Or perhaps that's my memory cunningly suggesting the ideal.
On the other hand, a comedian being turned loose on the great instrument in-between the national anthem and the song of true fellowship is perhaps a true reflection of the times.
Interesting piece on Woody Allen in the Times. Living, in his old age, across the street from the anhedonia of his youth. Interesting detail on the dinners with E. -- not proper meals, more telephones and computers. Rings true as to some of those types. Not the preoccupation with business, but feeling the need to call it a dinner party.
The best advice I could give would be to always focus on the thing itself, and the struggle to understand the thing itself, and yourself as someone whose task it is to understand the thing itself. You'll then be able to perceive when the folks around you aren't concerned with things as they are -- or might be. Otherwise, you might not realize the diection the bus is heading.
νῦν δὲ λογικός εἰμι: ὑμνεῖν με δεῖ τὸν θεόν. (Epictetus)
Λογικοσ--of the logos, and of legein. The mind not as some abstract capablility in negative potential, but that which brings us into being. We speak, as birds sing, to have our being by giving an order to things, and separating things that are ordered together.
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Review of a new biography of (The Young) Tennyson in the Times. There's an anecdote about the time he processed into the Sheldonian to receieve an honorary degree, unkempt as usual, and one of the robed dons in the cheap seats called out, "Mum wake you early, dearie?"
And News Quiz returns for the start of the London season. Somehow it's already mid-September. And Last Night of the Proms tonight. I remember, in the days before ubiquitous wi-fi, walking up and down a subway platform on the long commute, deep in the outer boroughs, trying to cadge a network to catch a few mintutes of it live.
When I was in those years of constant auditions in the city, I actually made a practice of listening to PMQs and the BBC parliament coverage. Seemed like a good way to get the news without being drawn into the labyrinth of mediation. If word could reach the chamber, the topic was probably important, and I'd rather listen to the words that the MPs use to describe it than the writers and television reporters. The λεγειν.
There's a universe of promptings that you can tune your electronic device towards. I've always found it more useful to use it to eavesdrop on the events going on in worthwhile places, as opposed to enjoying the device as an end in itself.
Ave Maria
The feast of the name of Mary. Instituted when Sobieski's news about lifting the second siege of Vienna (more coffee for us) arrived in Rome, paraphrasing Caesar: We came, We saw, God conquered. After wandering the Balkans for a bit, these sentiments are a bit more comprehensible. There are three great historical winds here -- the wind from the West, and Rome; the East, and Orthodoxy; and the South, anciently the Sublime Porte, but Ataturk's republic is still a living force in these southern countries. Possibly, there's another wind from the north, anciently the Saxons and the protestants contra the Habsburgs (when they arrived to lift the siege, treated none too kindly by the local Catholics), and now the industrial developments with loud German shepherds, and late-night classes at the Goethe Institute -- if you look in the window, you can sometimes see the bleary-eyed locals (no doubt after working two jobs that day) scrutinizing the whiteboards.
At present, I'm in the lands the government of which Demosthenes excoriated in the Philippics. It's a peculiar place. They left the old socialist southern republic before things degenerated into war -- from the chatter I've read, apparently they realized they had little interest in the fight, and would simply be used as soldiers by one of the larger ethnic groups. But avoiding the general war of the 1990s didn't make for an idyllic republic. The capital appears to be a placid but divided city, much like some others in the region, with one religion on one side of the river and the other on the other. Just a punter's guess, but perhaps the more recent conflict in the city is from the fact that the population growth after the recent nearby war didn't follow that pattern. The capital is marked with baroque architecture and statues, many from a development push a decade ago, and from a decade before that, there's an enormous lit cross on the mountain above the city. The folks across the river undoubtedly have very firm notions on statuary. (Latin churches in this part of the world seem to make a point of having a statue or two out front, and sounding the bells at the canonical hours, even if the doors are locked at the time. Cf. Ivo Andric's novel, in which the arrival of the French diplomat causes the Christians to wonder if flags might be allowed.) And adjacent to the large cross on the mountain, there is an even larger tower, apparently a telecom tower, which closely resembles the central tower in the Muslim-majority capital city to the northwest. The rocks and stones themselves.
Travelling through these places does bring some very strong dreams, and it does force you to define where you stand in relation to these questions. Someone could live their entire life in North Dakota and never encounter these forces, and there's many who would say that it's not a bad thing, and perhaps even the point of the New World. But it's been my experience, as someone from the New World on a bit of a peregrination hereabouts, that the dreams in which you have some sense of the angels will come even if you are a fast-food and television-reared child of nature amid the suburban comforts. (Kant's only statuary was a bust of Rousseau. It's a beginning.) When they occur in the context of world-historical forces, though, these dreams and intimations have a context within living experience. And perhaps the recent political experience of my country shows the dangers of these intimations of higher things when they arise without any context in the social life. The message can get a bit garbled, and a soi-disant modern Sobieski can launch a crusade against a DC pizza joint, and then make a last-second detour to the Capitol. History is an attempt to synthesize the higher truths of experience within the social fabric. And this can bring the wars in heaven down to earth, either with actual armies and actual pain and death, or in the form of a bridge laden with statuary, almost like primitive charms against the other tribe, lining the paths between the villages.
Rousseau didn't imagine that the children of nature would be dispassionate blank slates, or mild animals content to sleep and feed and work in the factories. This simplicity of primeval (or perhaps primordial) nature was a notion of greatness. The point was that this greatness came about through simplicity, and (long before Weber), disenchanting the people of a few old social charms. And Kant took this notion as a beginning. We of the New World can't pretend, in our innocence and prosperity, that there aren't ancient spiritual conflicts, and occasionally the wars in heaven are being fought out on earth. And perhaps the real danger is that we, with our own personal sense of the numinous, and of faith, might leap into these conflicts precipitously. Where wars of religion are being fought, they often have as much to do with the earthly elements of the two societies as they do with religious doctrines. The reine tor from the New World doesn't intuitively understand that these higher personal truths he senses so clearly have been translated into social experience over long centuries of conversation and daily life. Jumping into a battle because you recognize a device on the flag is a bit foolhardy. Instead, the traveller, knowing their own spiritual sympathies, is best off carefully observing the way these inner sensibilities have been translated into the social fabric, and making peace where it is possible to make peace.
I say this sort of thing with trepidation, as it's a bit contrary to the present television-oriented foreign policy of my country. But I have lived in these small towns and cities, in the north and in the south, in North Dakota and in midtown Manhattan. There are hundreds of millions staring at the televisions and imagining that they understand. Life, though, is (if I can make a sectarian point of my own) much closer to the care and encounter of sacrament than the sudden insights and identifications of textual analysis. America wields a rather big stick these days, and the policy decisions often play to the television narratives. But the ancient truths of the world are inscribed on the wanderer's staff. Every encounter is transactional sacrament, not a merely a vindication of simple and intuitive truths you always already knew.
Hold to your faith, and look carefully.
At present, I'm in the lands the government of which Demosthenes excoriated in the Philippics. It's a peculiar place. They left the old socialist southern republic before things degenerated into war -- from the chatter I've read, apparently they realized they had little interest in the fight, and would simply be used as soldiers by one of the larger ethnic groups. But avoiding the general war of the 1990s didn't make for an idyllic republic. The capital appears to be a placid but divided city, much like some others in the region, with one religion on one side of the river and the other on the other. Just a punter's guess, but perhaps the more recent conflict in the city is from the fact that the population growth after the recent nearby war didn't follow that pattern. The capital is marked with baroque architecture and statues, many from a development push a decade ago, and from a decade before that, there's an enormous lit cross on the mountain above the city. The folks across the river undoubtedly have very firm notions on statuary. (Latin churches in this part of the world seem to make a point of having a statue or two out front, and sounding the bells at the canonical hours, even if the doors are locked at the time. Cf. Ivo Andric's novel, in which the arrival of the French diplomat causes the Christians to wonder if flags might be allowed.) And adjacent to the large cross on the mountain, there is an even larger tower, apparently a telecom tower, which closely resembles the central tower in the Muslim-majority capital city to the northwest. The rocks and stones themselves.
Travelling through these places does bring some very strong dreams, and it does force you to define where you stand in relation to these questions. Someone could live their entire life in North Dakota and never encounter these forces, and there's many who would say that it's not a bad thing, and perhaps even the point of the New World. But it's been my experience, as someone from the New World on a bit of a peregrination hereabouts, that the dreams in which you have some sense of the angels will come even if you are a fast-food and television-reared child of nature amid the suburban comforts. (Kant's only statuary was a bust of Rousseau. It's a beginning.) When they occur in the context of world-historical forces, though, these dreams and intimations have a context within living experience. And perhaps the recent political experience of my country shows the dangers of these intimations of higher things when they arise without any context in the social life. The message can get a bit garbled, and a soi-disant modern Sobieski can launch a crusade against a DC pizza joint, and then make a last-second detour to the Capitol. History is an attempt to synthesize the higher truths of experience within the social fabric. And this can bring the wars in heaven down to earth, either with actual armies and actual pain and death, or in the form of a bridge laden with statuary, almost like primitive charms against the other tribe, lining the paths between the villages.
Rousseau didn't imagine that the children of nature would be dispassionate blank slates, or mild animals content to sleep and feed and work in the factories. This simplicity of primeval (or perhaps primordial) nature was a notion of greatness. The point was that this greatness came about through simplicity, and (long before Weber), disenchanting the people of a few old social charms. And Kant took this notion as a beginning. We of the New World can't pretend, in our innocence and prosperity, that there aren't ancient spiritual conflicts, and occasionally the wars in heaven are being fought out on earth. And perhaps the real danger is that we, with our own personal sense of the numinous, and of faith, might leap into these conflicts precipitously. Where wars of religion are being fought, they often have as much to do with the earthly elements of the two societies as they do with religious doctrines. The reine tor from the New World doesn't intuitively understand that these higher personal truths he senses so clearly have been translated into social experience over long centuries of conversation and daily life. Jumping into a battle because you recognize a device on the flag is a bit foolhardy. Instead, the traveller, knowing their own spiritual sympathies, is best off carefully observing the way these inner sensibilities have been translated into the social fabric, and making peace where it is possible to make peace.
I say this sort of thing with trepidation, as it's a bit contrary to the present television-oriented foreign policy of my country. But I have lived in these small towns and cities, in the north and in the south, in North Dakota and in midtown Manhattan. There are hundreds of millions staring at the televisions and imagining that they understand. Life, though, is (if I can make a sectarian point of my own) much closer to the care and encounter of sacrament than the sudden insights and identifications of textual analysis. America wields a rather big stick these days, and the policy decisions often play to the television narratives. But the ancient truths of the world are inscribed on the wanderer's staff. Every encounter is transactional sacrament, not a merely a vindication of simple and intuitive truths you always already knew.
Hold to your faith, and look carefully.
The problem afflicting all of the superpowers, perhaps: the necessity that the politically unacceptable but meritorious folks be able to secure a minimal existence within the civilization. Beneficient corporate purposiveness has its antinomies.
Before the conflict started, I mused about heading to Siberia, with its 19th c. wooden buildings preserved in the cold, to find a small university (somehow with English language instruction) and study and live simply. Infinitely preferable to being caught up in what passes for the political world presently. Dostoevsky wept when he read Hegel's pronouncement that the remote place that he was in was outside history, though. But if the centers of things are caught up in false ways of thinking, perhaps it is better to live deliberately. History is the consciousness of history. If, at the center of things, only those who don't understand are allowed to play a role, then perhaps the nature of history (as we know it, a relatively recent vocabulary for parsing experience) itself has changed.
Back to the books.
Still off the morning runs. Has led to a more civilian rising hour. Just going with it for the nonce. Inauspicious place for the early run (the city has many interesting things about it, but I think even its partisans would concede that it's not California in that respect), and resting the ligatures a bit after a month of lengthening the morning course in the last city. (Up to six or seven miles, I think. Incentivized by the fact that I had to run out of the urban areas to the idyllic forested parts by the rivers.)
Separately -- my route took me past the museum of contemporary art there, which apparently has a practice of playing exotic and threatening bird calls in the mornings to keep the flocks of crows away. Strange how an organization's purpose can be reflected in all of its works. Hegel: the cunning is more than the conscious.
I'm a very big fan of that city. Much more civilized than comparable cities within world powers. Non-aligned. Big military parade next week, though. I spent many evenings at the sbux across from the redesigned space in front of the parliament, and the redesign of the street really does give a Red Square vibe.
But as for today, no run. When I return to it, I will return to it. Now that I am not doing it, I am not doing it.
"The most important thing is not to be divided." (Grotowski)
re: Morning Runs
Still off these for the nonce, for several reasons. There are times when the light brigade should charge, and there are times when the light brigade should refrain from charging.
[In the background, from their various tents, the Light Brigade strikes up a winsome refrain of "All Quiet Along the Potomac" in the flickering light of the campfires.]
It would be useful to be in a place where I could run before dawn without the strays and the pollution, a gym at hand, basic healthy food (coffehouses, perhaps, as well), churches for meditation and liturgy, and a world-class research library to work in all day, but the only scenario that would provide that, if I were to try to jump now, would likely not allow for a place to rest the head in the evenings, so I reckon I'll press on. Though I did mull the prospect.
In the larger view, many more things would be useful, of course. The fact that these things come to my mind indicate that the mind's provisioning task is revealing the nature of the work to be done.
So -- work towards these things, to the exclusion of others, to the extent that circumstances allow.
Notes for something Kafkaish, cont'd:
A protagonist, a bit adrift, attempts to compose the events of the past into a recognizable history, but encounters considerable difficulty. Perhaps he is the child of civil servants, and knows that confidential government work basically destroyed his parents and his family, and also he knows that, after he left their home, networks of corrupt people made short work of what he thought to be his life's work and then two subsequent attempts at a career in the learned professions. The question, the thing that keeps him from understanding the story, is the degree to which these things might be connected. Is it the nature of the country and society that such things happen, or did something happen within the world that encompassed both events and made his experience unique from the others?
Knowing the story seems to take on added importance, as he senses even the smallest, least remunerative opportunities closing themselves off to him outside the world of the corrupt networks, and the darker contacts and context of the old home. Fathoming the reason for the vanishing of the light -- a peculiar impulse, perhaps.
At any rate, an interesting piece of fiction.
The point might be wondering at the urgency of knowing such things, when the knowledge would seem to be of little avail.
From my limited understanding of the present national politics, and my personal experiences in several spheres, I'd be inclined to say that the most salient thing about the present executive is that this is not an outlier or an anomaly -- across the two factions prevailing generally (as against each other), this sort of sensibility seems to be prevalent. And, not incidentally, each offers a world-encompassing explanation sufficient to constitute a comprehensive political ontology for its followers.
I have no way of knowing how many other wanderers there might be. Perhaps I'm the outlier, and the republic is entirely healthy with the single exception of the experiences of one of its citizens. But these experiences would objectively suggest the possibility of a more prevalent difficulty. The presumption is properly against the anomaly.
I actually feel a bit like apologizing to each of these settlements, as it tries to draw me into the sleep of the place, and I assert my inward ways against it. (I'm off the morning runs for a bit, for several reasons.) It's not like I'm holding off, hoping to fall into the spell of a greater city. The attraction of the large northen cities on these travels is precisely that it's easier to stand apart from things there, and think and work. Even in my home city of a few decades, I've deliberately lived, like many of the full-time residents there, at some distance from the madding crowd and their various comforts. The trick is to appreciate the flame that has drawn the forest to the place, without following the moths, and trying to cast yourself into it on arrival.
And yet -- each place does have a message that it is straining to express to the traveller, and it is possible to listen for those things, the things the place wishes to be known, and to try to understand them.
We were the first class of the conservatory (now in the top ten worldwide, by some rankings), so there were some difficulties. I stayed out of the fray, and just worked on soaking up as much of the work as I could. The higher elements, mainly the classical elements (and listening to those concerts and rehearsals were a small part of that), have leavened the other things over the intervening times. Conservatory is about planting seeds for the coming years. Mix in a few redwoods. Cedars. Eastern pine. The parts of it that have fallen away in the course of the years were lesser things from the beginning. There were one or two very passionate but craven teachers, feminist politics, all the right PC ideas, etc. Those teachings won't even endure, let alone prevail. The more careful work of the art lasts.
Frequently attended his concerts and open rehearsals during the conservatory degree. Post-Szell, Cleveland has consistently been one of those rare Midwestern arts institutions committed to careful, historically meaningful art, despite all its old European implications and entailments. Apparently connected to Bonhoeffer as an in-law, which I hadn't known.
On days in which you survey the employment listings, and absolutely everything about the situation makes it seem like you have about as much business (or interest in) looking for a position as a random method actor who has done a few years of Shakespeare in the park (note the lower case) has of seeking admittance to an elite Hollywood bistro filled with lunching power-brokers assembling projects, and guarded by several layers of criminally conspiritorial types, from the bouncers on though the front of house folks -- on such a day, do not send out the CVs.
Time and tide might not wait, but they do have their turns.
Interesting concert at the small hall of the local philharmonic ($6). Postwar western-Balkan ensemble, mostly new-music, but mixed in with some of the romantic repertory. The latter actually seemed to be their strength, interpretive freedom, sweeping emotion, wobbly pitch at times from the low strings (which I've noticed everywhere in the Balkans -- perhaps they hear the instruments differently). The paradox is that the type of musician who would be very strong in the romantic repertory, for these same reasons, is conceptually drawn to new music.
The (excellent) hall is very crisp and bright -- with the romantic swooshiness (in the best Rortyan sense) of the pieces, it was a bit like watching a melodrama on a kabuki stage. Every fricative rasp of the strings as clear as daylight. Very interesting.
The Miami Vice move in the Carribean was flagrant under any standard. So why no reaction? Much to do with the use of unrestricted drone warfare in neutral nations ovr the last two decades, I think. They've simply taken off the fig leaf.
When bad things come, they make good use of the bad aspects of the good.
Meanwhile, in the streets, the War on Wilding continues.
Somewhat miraculously, the neighborhood hubbub diminished, and the workspace was quite idyllic for several hours. Managed a solid 30 minutes on the task, though, before I was distracted to necessary admin planning and due diligence. Tempted just to stay at the desk into the evening, but there is an obligation to the place. So, off to the city center, and I'll hope that whatever Friday charm fell over the place will return.
With every new vector introduced on the path, there comes the risk that you will find that it has led you into climes uncongenial to the specific work at hand. At that point, commit to dispassion, as it will be necessary on the long arc back to the known winds of the trade routes.
It's undoubtedly a pleasant place for the people of the place, but I don't seem to have hit it at the right angle.
Bit of a slough of despond. I have set the tasks, though. It's a simple matter of keeping myself at the desk and doing them.
Pausing the morning runs, at least through the week -- several reasons.
Noticed that the city's national theatre (which might be the national theatre, though that's usually not the case in the Balkans) was doing a play that I remember reading as an undergrad, and the sequel to which I actually saw on Broadway when I was doing summer stock in Massachusetts. But then it become cultural phenomenon, the HBO version, etc. Decided that as an American, I didn't want to investigate that American incursion into the neighborhood. Sort of like the fellow you knew in college whom you grew to dislike, and then you see them from a distance when travelling. No need to force the acquaintance. Looking forward to catching one or two of their other pieces while I'm here.
Felling a bit like the mad scientist orbiting the planet from a distance, plotting his grand strategy, yet somehow always the same distance from the planet. Must be sure to give the areas of the orbit their due, though. These are stange and interesting lands, although I don't want to dissipate the energies by turning away from the central work and just calling the whole exercise an extended gap year. There is work to be done, and I have it in hand.
Heu, quam vicina est ultima terra mihi. (Ovid, also in the Balkans)
AMONG the numerous advantages promised by a wellconstructed Union, none deserves to be more accurately developed than its tendency to break and control the violence of faction. The friend of popular governments never finds himself so much alarmed for their character and fate, as when he contemplates their propensity to this dangerous vice. He will not fail, therefore, to set a due value on any plan which, without violating the principles to which he is attached, provides a proper cure for it. The instability, injustice, and confusion introduced into the public councils, have, in truth, been the mortal diseases under which popular governments have everywhere perished; as they continue to be the favorite and fruitful topics from which the adversaries to liberty derive their most specious declamations. The valuable improvements made by the American constitutions on the popular models, both ancient and modern, cannot certainly be too much admired; but it would be an unwarrantable partiality, to contend that they have as effectually obviated the danger on this side, as was wished and expected. Complaints are everywhere heard from our most considerate and virtuous citizens, equally the friends of public and private faith, and of public and personal liberty, that our governments are too unstable, that the public good is disregarded in the conflicts of rival parties, and that measures are too often decided, not according to the rules of justice and the rights of the minor party, but by the superior force of an interested and overbearing majority. However anxiously we may wish that these complaints had no foundation, the evidence, of known facts will not permit us to deny that they are in some degree true. It will be found, indeed, on a candid review of our situation, that some of the distresses under which we labor have been erroneously charged on the operation of our governments; but it will be found, at the same time, that other causes will not alone account for many of our heaviest misfortunes; and, particularly, for that prevailing and increasing distrust of public engagements, and alarm for private rights, which are echoed from one end of the continent to the other. These must be chiefly, if not wholly, effects of the unsteadiness and injustice with which a factious spirit has tainted our public administrations.
Thursday. Which I know from the arrival of the TLS in the email inbox (de minimis promotional rate). Like oil running down the beard. The web interface is terrible, basically impossible to read all the way through without opening a few dozen seriatum tabs in the browser, and then it's in random order. The UK seems on a mission to destroy its internationally influential websites. Speaking piecemeal to the nations. The OED was revamped a few years ago, making it basically useless for many purposes. The BBC radio sites have been a complete mess for the past several months; the idea appears to be that they're geo-fencing almost all of the content to the UK, with some content available after a lag of a few weeks. (Perhaps this informed the recent shifts in In Our Time, which would no longer be available same-week worldwide.)
At any rate, with the publicly available snapshots of the first few pages as printed, and the scattershot piecemeal web interface, it's possible to meander through the Weekly Reader, and get some sense of the gestalt. The best way of thinking about the TLS is to imagine yourself as a great Arabian lord standing on his balcony in the evening, and a series of bedraggled urchins sprint into the courtyard and shout garbled versions of the interesting things going on in the other palaces. They're trying to seem impressive as they recite their speech up to the balcony, but the real task is to look past them to see if there's anything worthwhile in the thing they're decribing. One very useful bit is that the reviews will sometimes dismissively run through a list of the old scholarship, which can give you a good reading list.
The consistent ideal for the rooms on this peregrination has been a bright, open minimally furnished place with an abundance of fresh air and sunlight. Ideally, sufficient cultural life in the city--theatre and music, usually around $5-$10 per ticket, as the market hasn't been artificially constrained to make it a luxury good, and the state/foundation support goes right to the art, rather than building the marketing mechanisms necessary for selling the luxury good. More basically, the ability to run in the morning (pace air pollution, dogs, safety). Research libraries in the area with some collections in English have proved useful.
The local ideas of happiness, though, seem to enter on "cozy", heavily furnished and decorated spaces well insulated from air, and occasionally sunlight. I wandered through the main residential developments over the weekend, and was struck that even in the mountains, they build close, cozy spaces in insular communities. Much the same phenomenon in the country directly to the west that was also part of the old republic. The materials of brutalism assist in this. They become vine-draped caves rather than portals to the light.
Eluding local ideas of happiness is the first, and necessary step to escaping the local sleep. Put me in a cozy, hygge room in the center of the hobbit village, and I will light a small lamp, devote all my energies to focusing the mind, and wait for the opportunity to leave.
Just reading the reviews of the TN in the park is very depressing. They used to do good theatre there. Of course, the same can be said of the city. Now, it's just a means of repeating the sensibilities of the television.
Incidentally, after much mulling, I'm more certain than ever that in the letter and the gulling conceit, we were meant to hear "cross-gartered" as wearing a cross, and "yellow starchings" as the ruff. The joke is that M misunderstands. Both the starched ruff and the cross would have been provocative political symbols. (And possibly "Lady of the Strachy as misprint for Stark(ch)y.")
Nowhere in the variorum.
Quite a week, last week. For some reason, absasmurfly everything that could go wrong from an admin POV did go wrong. Including, most significantly for my purposes, an unforced error or two.
By the weekend, was reduced to what a Victorian prime minister might have called a state of mild nervous prostration. But decided to observe the American holday by sleeping in after a placid Sunday, and now it's back to the fray.
Absolute discipline. Some people might call my approach characteristic of national socialism, others might call it characteristic of a Soviet commissar. The choice in those instances would be revealing of the speaker. But it is necessary to have the intensity of focus and being that was deivided between those two (and then reconciled, as Rory noted, at an extended academic seminar called the battle of Stalingrad). By divine edict, Eden isn't an option. Find the grace.
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