in the hall of mirrors

Nadir; and the problem of small talk

At the lowest point of light, time, and the year: that dark still point before the cycle turns back upward.

It was interesting to see some people get upset over the entire Mayan-end-of-the-world meme – furious that people would dare discuss something not scientifically proven. But of course part of its attraction for many – even for me – is the ambiguous attitude towards some huge change or ending: those of us who get tired of daily life as it is being lived these days may want a change – even a disastrous one. This isn't psychologically or culturally a huge surprise; consider it a way of blowing off steam.

A festive party at a local bar tonight, given by Hannabiel and Yllis: rich and heartening food, crowds of people, and their band. I was standing around chatting to students, some of whom I'd never spoken to personally before – one who took courses from me three or four years ago, and some of my current students. I kept getting welcome compliments on my lectures – evidently I'm more fun to watch than some; and students have tended to associate me with the wide-ranging ideas I teach in the cultural theories class.

I noticed myself tending to get into rather deep, directly personal conversations with all of them – a beautiful girl, a rough lad and his girlfriend, a gay guy, and a boyish one (the one who graduated a few years ago)... relationships, life plans, deeper feelings about things....

It reminded me of a time in the mid-80s in West Hollywood, when I was secretary and gofer for the astoundingly handsome Steve Schulte (as a Colt model he was renamed Nick Chase, and became the most famous of the entire Colt stables). Steve was fairly disorienting to work with in person, because in addition to being insanely sexy, he was also extremely kind, deeply honest, and very serious (aargh, just kill me now). But somehow I got work done, and managed not to stutter too much or fall out of my chair when he gave me my instructions each morning.

One day those instructions involved driving to see writer Paul Monette and getting him to sign some document or other. Steve casually told me, as I left: just so you know, Monette has no small talk. I wasn't quite sure what this meant, but when I got to Monette's house in the hills I learned: even though I was just the guy who had brought a form to sign, he had me sit down and have a drink, and he wanted to talk about what I intended to do in life, what it meant, what I found important in the world... quite amazing really; and since I'm always willing to talk about myself, I had a field day.

This was before AIDS redefined Monette's life, before his partner got ill and died, before he wrote his final memoirs and poems. But it left me deeply impressed: such a commitment not to waste time on trivialities... when you read some of the novels, you can see the same constant deep reflection on everything.

I am of course much more casual about my use of time. But I can see that, as I've gotten older, I do tend to jump into deeper levels of conversation with people.

Perhaps I am becoming, at least occasionally, someone who has no small talk....

Blurs

As teaching ended last Friday, I am putting myself back together, after what felt like three months of scrambling to keep up.

And yes, I know that there are many people in the world – more energetic, harder-working – who would have been easily able to keep up with what felt like a heavy teaching load, and various demands pulling at me. But I am, as you must know by now, not one of those people.

I'm trying to focus on ruthlessly hacking my way through the great, dark forest of unfinished research – these things must be done: the Jarman article (with all its identification with grief and death), the graphic scores article, the Meredith Monk article, and of course the Stäbler collection.

Mentally this does not seem impossible: of course I procrastinate too much, but life in the gap between the end of the semester and Christmas, and the New Year, and exams, is quiet; and though I had promised myself I would travel, that never got arranged, somehow. So I will stay home, and perhaps during Easter vacation will go with Thomas, and perhaps Rumana if she can come, to Firenze, or Venezia (indulgence!).

Perhaps. Or instead study for my second set of exams in Zürich...

But after two days of a virus last Monday and Tuesday (and I somehow got through a birthday dinner, the preparation of a lecture, the two-hour lecture itself, and a reading for a celebratory Cage concert, while the damned thing took hold), I am weirdly weak: even a week later I am bumping into things, my legs are shaky, I don't want to stand up...

And I am frequently, disconnectedly sad: not depressed exactly, but apparently always aware of time and loss and distance.  I'm sure these seem to be my usual feelings (I would apologize to more optimistic readers of this blog, but then it's not up to them, is it?); but what feels noticeable this time is (1) the distinct and literal presence of the emotion, not connected to events or things read or seen; and (2) the sense that all these feelings are floating, strong and deep but invisible, just below the surface of consciousness.

As though the past is present, but not in a literal or clearly outlined form: just the clouds of feelings that have arisen from loss and disappointment, floating free of their origins...

Strange. Not awful, but strange. A winter space where the distinction between past and present, between real and imagined, is not particularly important....

A late entry

So, Stop AIDS Newcastle – the student-run political organization, which includes some of my own music students, and a lot of medical students among others – had a jazz concert tonight, on a night when a bit of snow completely stopped the buses and made a fair mess of the town.

Joe, one of the organizers, had asked me to come speak – after various messages and promises back and forth, I resisted until the last minute, thinking: no, I'd rather sit here with my hot chocolate, which has some sharp-edged Hungarian liqueur in it (one of those that sounds innocent when you describe it, but can take the paint off a fender). But I finally felt guilty enough to go out to the bus stop – clearly a vain hope; but after ten minutes or so a taxi buzzed by and stopped when I stuck my hand out.

At the club, there were about a hundred of the kids, mine and others; pleasant, good music – really lively in fact... at a pause I got up and talked about what it had been like back at the beginning (for me, 1983), with an irregular/scattered overview of the past thirty years. It was perhaps a bit strange to do so: I've done more organized speeches that I've written down, or just talked about particular topics – but it seemed appropriate to just tell a few fragmentary stories, to give them an idea of all the time that has passed, and perhaps speak of a few of all the many people who are now gone.

And it worked. Another jazz group took the stage afterwards – actually quite a good one, consisting of nearly half the audience. Joe gave me a bottle of wine in thanks, which I passed on to another student who came up to talk to me; and when I finally went home, though it took a few minutes to get a taxi, I was glad I'd come out into the night....

Such kindness, and such feeling, from these kids.

It is good that they are here....

2 December

The first of December is of course World AIDS Day, a definite part of my calendar – there was a parade, speeches, 'lanterns' made of paper and glow sticks; and I had appearances on radio and television (the television studios were up to date and startlingly high-tech – in my four minutes of being in front of the camera, I was slightly distracted by the demanding precision of the setup, which of course is much more polished than the funky, cheerful world of the radio station).

But it is after midnight; the second of December is more distinctly my own personal remembrance: that is the day Reid Beitrusten died in 1983 after six months of misery, as his body disintegrated painfully under the impact of this mysterious and then new condition. It is now twenty-nine years since... since it all changed.

Tonight I am somewhat dislocated in time and space – a grant application to write a book on music written about AIDS was rejected; these observations of World AIDS Day combined seeing dear friends (notably Melinda and Mark O.) with an obscure quarrel among the organizers, which I abetted by stupidly asking people what was wrong, rather than just shutting up; and... well, I guess I'm just having a confused sense of the past, present and future.

Which is both specific to this point in time (rethinking my next few years without the book, and trying to reconnect to my Jung-Institut work, and to the research that isn't done, and to teaching that has suddenly started to feel rather blurry, when none of them seems quite real tonight) and also typical of every early December in my later life.

Time was, time is, time will be... the sun goes down early, from 4 pm; and everything I have to do seems out of kilter, vaguely unreal. I think of myself as viewed by a more successful or richer, or by a happier, person: as someone who is a bit lost, a bit disconnected from anything that matters, as someone alone and not engaged in anything terribly useful... and so I have a dream about being stuck in a crawlspace, trying to break into the house of my own life and change things: but I can't get out of the crawlspace. Because I don't know what I'm doing up there, and don't have any tools with me.

At some irregular points in the last few years I do speak to Reid in my head. After all, he did get me to go back to graduate school and have an actual career – he is the one who told me, from his hospital bed, to "stop screwing around and go back to school".

And in my head, I tell him, well: I've made a lot of blunders, and have spent too much time not doing anything that matters... but at least it's been a better life than it would have been, if I hadn't followed what you told me to do.

I suppose he, and I, will have to be satisfied with that....