Though I command languages
both human and angelic – if I speak without love, I am no more than a cymbal clashing. I Corinthians 13:1. But there are thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird and love's present in perspectives that count.
Pleasantly productive Friday morning. Woke early from late St. A's night to an assembly at the public elementary school where I tutor. Wexler Grant tries to create community to combat chaos beyond its control. From uniforms to huge signs, school spirit is wielded like a weapon. Works, almost. At the assembly, cutest kids performed their own choreographed dance to Jackson Five. The center star sucked his thumb through the entire song. Wild cheers broke from the crowd for Elvis-esque pelvic moves and breakdancing. At the end tutors were called up on stage. Strange looking out over the assembly and the year. Searching out faces I knew for flash of recognition like a moment when multiplication suddenly made sense.
After honored, hiked a half hour to the damn Divinity School. Research for Bible class brought me up to the city on a hill. Red brick rose into white cupolas carving out sacred space from the blue beyond. Crossed a quiet courtyard, a New England cloister breathing evenly through blades of gold grass. A cynic trespassing on theologians' peace.
Inexplicable week of weather, the kind people move to Northern California for. Dry with bright skies. New Haven's confused. To celebrate the miscommunication, had literary theory section outside on Old Campus. Boys played croquet and frisbees flew overhead. Heads turned around the circle to catch and throw back thoughts passing from minds to mouths to minds. My idyll. As the five o'clock shadow of Linsly Chittendon crept across the circle of crossed legs covered with critical theory, excess and ambiguity quarrelled with political purposes off the pages of Judith Butler. Foucault found his way into conversation through the multiplicity of force relations present in the History of Sexuality and our group. Last section because next week the teaching fellows will be picketing. Because it's not Yale without labour disputes, there's a strike next week. This time it's GESO, the grad student union. Strikes are about as startling in New Haven as in Paris. At least they'll never close the non-existent metro.
Oh, and Assasins. Last weekend was a winning one for the Yanks and I. Stiles took us out to the ball game. Bleacher creatures cheered just as loud when they put Tino in as when the home team came from behind to win on a three run shot from Ruben See-ya-ra that landed at our feet. Feet from Matsui in left field, sat close enough to Stanton for conversation. Saw the Sandman warming up his arm to sing the Orioles to sleep in the lights out ninth inning. Explaining the customs and rituals to two international friends was an excuse to get peanuts and crackerjacks and shout out "take me out." I love the whole spectacle. Walking through the tunnel out to the groomed grass, each time I think Yankee Stadium is a temple. Place of worship for my epic heroes, warriors of sport traded for tribal battle. And like a listener might have been stirred by a bard's repetition of "Achilles son of Peleus" or "Hector breaker of horses," I thrill at the sound of Yankees' epithets from the lips of Bob Shepherd. Returned home on Saturday from the game sunburnt and ecstatic to dodge friendly fire from the last standing opponent, teammate on crew last year. She survived till Sunday when both went to bathroom, neutral territory. Waited it out reading The Society of the Spectacle, before bored Beth made a break for it. Shot dead. Silly seven year-old joyful triumph. Kinda miss my gun but got the glory of being most devious, dangerous, competitive in Stiles and the prize.
Pleasantly productive Friday morning. Woke early from late St. A's night to an assembly at the public elementary school where I tutor. Wexler Grant tries to create community to combat chaos beyond its control. From uniforms to huge signs, school spirit is wielded like a weapon. Works, almost. At the assembly, cutest kids performed their own choreographed dance to Jackson Five. The center star sucked his thumb through the entire song. Wild cheers broke from the crowd for Elvis-esque pelvic moves and breakdancing. At the end tutors were called up on stage. Strange looking out over the assembly and the year. Searching out faces I knew for flash of recognition like a moment when multiplication suddenly made sense.
After honored, hiked a half hour to the damn Divinity School. Research for Bible class brought me up to the city on a hill. Red brick rose into white cupolas carving out sacred space from the blue beyond. Crossed a quiet courtyard, a New England cloister breathing evenly through blades of gold grass. A cynic trespassing on theologians' peace.
Inexplicable week of weather, the kind people move to Northern California for. Dry with bright skies. New Haven's confused. To celebrate the miscommunication, had literary theory section outside on Old Campus. Boys played croquet and frisbees flew overhead. Heads turned around the circle to catch and throw back thoughts passing from minds to mouths to minds. My idyll. As the five o'clock shadow of Linsly Chittendon crept across the circle of crossed legs covered with critical theory, excess and ambiguity quarrelled with political purposes off the pages of Judith Butler. Foucault found his way into conversation through the multiplicity of force relations present in the History of Sexuality and our group. Last section because next week the teaching fellows will be picketing. Because it's not Yale without labour disputes, there's a strike next week. This time it's GESO, the grad student union. Strikes are about as startling in New Haven as in Paris. At least they'll never close the non-existent metro.
Oh, and Assasins. Last weekend was a winning one for the Yanks and I. Stiles took us out to the ball game. Bleacher creatures cheered just as loud when they put Tino in as when the home team came from behind to win on a three run shot from Ruben See-ya-ra that landed at our feet. Feet from Matsui in left field, sat close enough to Stanton for conversation. Saw the Sandman warming up his arm to sing the Orioles to sleep in the lights out ninth inning. Explaining the customs and rituals to two international friends was an excuse to get peanuts and crackerjacks and shout out "take me out." I love the whole spectacle. Walking through the tunnel out to the groomed grass, each time I think Yankee Stadium is a temple. Place of worship for my epic heroes, warriors of sport traded for tribal battle. And like a listener might have been stirred by a bard's repetition of "Achilles son of Peleus" or "Hector breaker of horses," I thrill at the sound of Yankees' epithets from the lips of Bob Shepherd. Returned home on Saturday from the game sunburnt and ecstatic to dodge friendly fire from the last standing opponent, teammate on crew last year. She survived till Sunday when both went to bathroom, neutral territory. Waited it out reading The Society of the Spectacle, before bored Beth made a break for it. Shot dead. Silly seven year-old joyful triumph. Kinda miss my gun but got the glory of being most devious, dangerous, competitive in Stiles and the prize.
