mad days
dear readers,
I am in London! And delighted to be so, although presently rather jet-lagged, and--as always, upon arrival back to this country--prey to ungovernable emotions. I'll be in the city for the next three days, for work (also other pursuits, like seeing Nuri Bilge Ceylan's photography exhibition and meeting mrpurse for some drinks) and then in Oxford for four, for play (and thariel, dear S., F, the Boatclub remnants, joy, confession, advice-seeking, birthday parties, deja vu, and chicken-jalapeno pizza). If you're reading this and around, email me, or call--the old number still works.
The last two-odd weeks have been perhaps the strangest and busiest I've had since moving to New York, and this place has fallen somewhat by the wayside--there are no less than 4 half-written posts waiting to be finished, and Teju's tagged me with a meme, so I'll be making amends. But first I must gather my wits and regain my balance.
First, mid-month, came the news that dear S. had been seized at the Cairo airport by the mukhabarat, unpleasantly interrogated all night, and summarily deported the next morning. She is fine, thank God, and has come through the experience with her characteristic fortitude (selfishly, I'm glad at least it means I'll get to see her this week). In the meantime a motley band of academic chevaliers have sallied forth to the Egyptian embassy to defend her honour, and a goat was sacrificed in Karachi in thanks for her safe escape. Nonetheless, I am desiring dearly to kick some fucking mukhabarat, very hard, in the balls. Later that same week Dink was killed, and with him (it seems) the hopes of many people I love and respect for the future of their country, at least in the meantime. I'm still writing--in some of those mouldering unfinished posts--about the reverberations of the murder.
On a more cheerful note, this month saw the resurrection of the infamous, informal Oxford feminist/gender/queer theory seminar; now located in a basement in Brooklyn, giving succor to those of us sad-minded enough to almost wish we were back in grad school (and thus willing to spend a work night once a week discussing Foucault, Butler, Rubin, Fausto-Sterling, Nussbaum, et al). There have also been various happy announcements, high among which is that my good friend RA, another Oxford-to-Brooklyn transplant, has just been hired at my workplace, where we will form a distinct Oxbridge/Middle East/rowing-fanaticism axis. Work has produced moments of surprising gratification, not the least of which was seeing some sentences of my crafting on the opinion page of the NYT (don't go looking: my byline is nowhere to be seen. But it's a seductive feeling, to see one's words in that space....) And several kinds of turmoil in my personal life, occasioning angst, but also a blessing: the discovery of a kindred spirit.
Now here I am trying to read documents for tomorrow's meetings, with my mind (instead) on the impending reunions later this week--with all the usual suspects, and others less usual. Most delightfully, I may be about to see my dear friend W for the first time in more than two years years, because he is being sent from South Africa to Seattle (!) on a press junket the very same week I've come to the UK--but we may be able to cross paths during his transit, and will have our reunion in the airport if need be (it wouldn't be the first time I've had a reunion with a fellow Antonian in the departure lounge at Heathrow). We haven't seen one another since he moved back to Jo'burg: July 2004, a fierce goodbye after one last raucous night in the Turf, embracing under Hertford's bridge of sighs, and then pushing eachother back out into the world, as if suddenness would make parting easier. Since then it's just been emails, the occasional phone call, and postcards or photos tucked into envelopes with stamps from across Africa--Nairobi, Maputo, somewhere along the Congo's path--tumbling into my mailbox in Brooklyn. I'm very annoyed I can't play tour guide to him in my home city, but crossing paths on an intermediate continent will do for now.
In the meantime, I'm reading Louise Gluck--'for me, always/ the delight is the surprise'--and feeling grateful that whatever else is happening, this life is still capable of surprising me with impressive frequency.
I am in London! And delighted to be so, although presently rather jet-lagged, and--as always, upon arrival back to this country--prey to ungovernable emotions. I'll be in the city for the next three days, for work (also other pursuits, like seeing Nuri Bilge Ceylan's photography exhibition and meeting mrpurse for some drinks) and then in Oxford for four, for play (and thariel, dear S., F, the Boatclub remnants, joy, confession, advice-seeking, birthday parties, deja vu, and chicken-jalapeno pizza). If you're reading this and around, email me, or call--the old number still works.
The last two-odd weeks have been perhaps the strangest and busiest I've had since moving to New York, and this place has fallen somewhat by the wayside--there are no less than 4 half-written posts waiting to be finished, and Teju's tagged me with a meme, so I'll be making amends. But first I must gather my wits and regain my balance.
First, mid-month, came the news that dear S. had been seized at the Cairo airport by the mukhabarat, unpleasantly interrogated all night, and summarily deported the next morning. She is fine, thank God, and has come through the experience with her characteristic fortitude (selfishly, I'm glad at least it means I'll get to see her this week). In the meantime a motley band of academic chevaliers have sallied forth to the Egyptian embassy to defend her honour, and a goat was sacrificed in Karachi in thanks for her safe escape. Nonetheless, I am desiring dearly to kick some fucking mukhabarat, very hard, in the balls. Later that same week Dink was killed, and with him (it seems) the hopes of many people I love and respect for the future of their country, at least in the meantime. I'm still writing--in some of those mouldering unfinished posts--about the reverberations of the murder.
On a more cheerful note, this month saw the resurrection of the infamous, informal Oxford feminist/gender/queer theory seminar; now located in a basement in Brooklyn, giving succor to those of us sad-minded enough to almost wish we were back in grad school (and thus willing to spend a work night once a week discussing Foucault, Butler, Rubin, Fausto-Sterling, Nussbaum, et al). There have also been various happy announcements, high among which is that my good friend RA, another Oxford-to-Brooklyn transplant, has just been hired at my workplace, where we will form a distinct Oxbridge/Middle East/rowing-fanaticism axis. Work has produced moments of surprising gratification, not the least of which was seeing some sentences of my crafting on the opinion page of the NYT (don't go looking: my byline is nowhere to be seen. But it's a seductive feeling, to see one's words in that space....) And several kinds of turmoil in my personal life, occasioning angst, but also a blessing: the discovery of a kindred spirit.
Now here I am trying to read documents for tomorrow's meetings, with my mind (instead) on the impending reunions later this week--with all the usual suspects, and others less usual. Most delightfully, I may be about to see my dear friend W for the first time in more than two years years, because he is being sent from South Africa to Seattle (!) on a press junket the very same week I've come to the UK--but we may be able to cross paths during his transit, and will have our reunion in the airport if need be (it wouldn't be the first time I've had a reunion with a fellow Antonian in the departure lounge at Heathrow). We haven't seen one another since he moved back to Jo'burg: July 2004, a fierce goodbye after one last raucous night in the Turf, embracing under Hertford's bridge of sighs, and then pushing eachother back out into the world, as if suddenness would make parting easier. Since then it's just been emails, the occasional phone call, and postcards or photos tucked into envelopes with stamps from across Africa--Nairobi, Maputo, somewhere along the Congo's path--tumbling into my mailbox in Brooklyn. I'm very annoyed I can't play tour guide to him in my home city, but crossing paths on an intermediate continent will do for now.
In the meantime, I'm reading Louise Gluck--'for me, always/ the delight is the surprise'--and feeling grateful that whatever else is happening, this life is still capable of surprising me with impressive frequency.
posted by kitabet at 4:36 PM
2 Comments:
say hello to all of them from me. particularly W whom I haven't seen in ages too.
I'm here (just back from Canada)! Do get in touch. We are having a party on Friday evening. Please come if you are around.
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