in the hall of mirrors

Last night in Zürich

After a month in Zürich, lectures and seminars and parties at the Jung-Institut, sharply cold weather shifting to rather warm weather (for which I have proven unprepared, still stalking around in my grand black coat and sweaters), I'm

– packing, somewhat fussily and ineptly (isn't this supposed to be vastly easier on the way home, because I don't have to make any decisions?)

– relieved I've bought only a few books this time, wondering what caused me to bring six books with me in the first place

– wondering in conjunction with the above whether I should really be allowed out of the house by myself

– thinking I should put it all aside for a bit and go have a last drink at Cranberry, that is assuming that the shy, handsome young bartender with glasses is still going to be friendly, specifically to me (no, really)

– concerned that the big exhibition book from the museum doesn't fit into the bottom of the suitcase quite right, and it had better not get beaten up because it's signed and Barbara lugged it all the way from Geneva for me and it's frankly a work of art in itself

– worried that when I dropped by the Musikwissenschaftliches Institut of the Universität Zürich today to make contact for some future research seminar or exchange agreemenet, I looked too scruffy and unshaven to meet the head of department, but it's too late to fix that one now and I have his e-mail anyway

– thinking that perhaps Giovanni would join me at Cranberry, except that of course he'll be late and chaotic as usual

– aware that, despite getting a lot done in these three weeks, I can always manage to fuss over wasted time and the inevitable urge to sleep late in this scruffy small apartment

– ultimately glad that Nada responded to my e-mail, and perhaps in summer I'll get an apartment that is better and yet cheaper....

Okay well I'm off to see the bartender. But we both knew that would happen.

(Giovanni texts me at this plan: 'Ach u are a romantik!' And I text back, 'But didn't you know that?'...)

Frames and muddles

The Jung-Institut, winter semester, third week. A week until I go home... and that tangle that I often reach at this stage of the course, of irritation alternating with clarity.

Some lectures and workshops, and discussions and encounters and insights, are framed in vivid outline, or imbued with the aha! of treasured recognition. Others are confused, tangled, overlaid with minor irritations and a pathetic sense of embarrassment towards myself – muddles, in other words.

This is familiar and typical... but not always much fun. Predictable explanations: as an introvert (and yes, I am indeed a rather loud introvert, but nevertheless I am unquestionably an introvert) there is a point after a week, or two weeks, of six to eight to ten hours of daily interactions when I have simply had enough – enough of other people, enough of schedules and things to plan, enough, above all, of myself.

My own vanity bothers me only a little bit – I'm more exhausted and irritated by my (usually brief, but unpleasantly telling) flashes of aggression and judgmental rudeness. Of course most of us do that here at one point or another – but being away from university life means that such flashes can't be blamed on a general environment filled with the still-unformed emotions of twenty-year-olds; it's adults who are doing all this, which makes it all the more tiring. And there are the points where even packing lunch, drinking green tea to wake up, moving documents on the computer all start to seem maddening – repetition, fuss, and the low-level anxiety of getting ready each morning (virtually the definition of modern life of course).

It reminds me of generally miserable years working in a bank, working in an architecture firm, working in a corporate headhunter's office – but no, it's really quite different from those; the various working worlds where I spent too much time between 1978 and 1997 functioned at much lower emotional levels than this one, and included far less possibility for growing beyond from the confused noise of human complexes and inattentions. (Especially the headhunters – now those people were just nuts.)

So: I know this needs to be gone through – still tiring though.

Antonio and I were maundering on about whether or not we should even be doing this training – admittedly late on a Saturday night, on a train home, after a certain amount of prosecco and red wine. Since we both have other careers (he is a doctor), although we are attracted by this one, we are aware that it might trick us, turning into a disappointing everyday world of inanely repeated activities – an unpleasant possibility, after so much effort and money. Roberto was more sanguine, as he is a psychiatrist – the linear connection of what he already does with this training is more obvious; he has less of a sense of wandering through dark forests, without knowing whether there is another side to come out of, a clearing, or more open lands.

Oh well: we'll keep hacking away. Or, probably in some cases, we won't – but we'll get somewhere, eventually....

Passion

After four hours of classes today at the Jung-Institut – a slightly short day, but a good one; lectures by Roth, a psychiatrist who has a deep and powerful commitment to his psychotic and schizoid patients, reaching them and keeping them afloat in a way that few can match – I met Patricia, another analyst and pianist from Bern, at a bar in Zürich for a jazz night.

Fine players – remarkable ones, really. The pianist knew every song imaginable, with a casual fluency and a way of playing with all the possibilities that was wonderful to see; he was a New Yorker who now lives here with his Swiss wife. After Patricia introduced me as someone who had written about Sondheim, he started pulling Sondheim songs out of the hat and having huge fun with each of them. Oddly enough he ended with 'New York State of Mind' – of course a song that we hear often enough; but it was strangely, and sharply heartbreaking – you couldn't help but feel how far away from home he felt.

The bassist was shyer, a Swiss guy who was gentle and slightly awkward offstage in a nice formal jacket that may have been chosen by someone else; but when holding his double bass he moved perfectly and utterly into his element, without any trace of self-consciousness, and with wonderful skill. A Zen ability, an amazing fluency: I kept thinking of the end of Dinesen's 'Babette's Feast', when the Norwegian sister exclaims, with tears in her eyes, in Paradise, how you will delight the angels!

... wenn es schneit

Zürich. Snow. Küsnacht. Jung.

Green tea, clear cold light, scarves, and the realization that when I blithely think I can get away with wearing heavy cotton rather than wool I'm just fooling myself.

This time, studying at the Jung-Institut seems well-defined, sharp-edged, demanding but utterly in focus. We will see how that develops, or shifts back and forth.

I confess, although I know I've been here just once in winter (the other time I would have come here I was ill) I don't remember it being this cold – and though I have a few pictures in my head of that time (a group of us near the beach house in the snow, etc.) I don't quite remember how I managed it. Cold weather is after all not one of my favorite things, not by a long shot; but I'll admit it's pretty, at least to view from inside.

And many of the Swiss seem more focused, more well-defined, than in summer – as though this is their real element, and summer is just a bizarre aberration they enjoy for a brief time. (In fact, some of the men look even better than in summer – not that the Swiss are great beauties, but one does see those who look pretty good – as though this is what they are really designed for, in some lab or another.)

I do feel more aware, this time, of different levels of learning, teaching, study, knowing: getting things right, learning masses of things, understanding gestalts, or having the insight to veer through thickets of perception to flashes of what is really important. Various teachers use different modes, with different intentions... letting my grasp of that become instinctive (again) is useful, especially after the overly administered university world where I work back home. A shame it's so hard to convince bureaucrats to leave us alone to do our work – it's really what life is all about, of course....

Well: off to my streetcar, the local train, then Küsnacht and the Institut, in about thirty-five minutes.