“Oh, well, these are night thoughts produced by walking in the rain after two thousand years of Christianity.” – Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller
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What does it mean to have never had your heart broken? Are you cold and impenetrable? Are you merely practical to a fault? Or are you just biding your time before the inevitable, horrible moment when your steadiness comes falling down around you? Is the broken heart a human, all too human right of passage? Or just a convention in chickflicks and chick-lit and the self-help section in Barnes and Noble? I remember when I used to look to each new relationship with an almost masochistic sense of expectation, half-hoping this would be the individual who would finally break my heart, finally get the ordeal over with. I also used to think I couldn’t really be a writer until someone had shattered me to the core. Now I’m wondering if I ever have to have a broken heart. Can’t we actively seek out those people who will be kind to our hearts – and if they start to mishandle our emotions, can’t we love ourselves enough to walk away? This is where I find myself today, happy and assured, but curious about the tropes of love.
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One of my bosses was a casual friend with Edward Said. He once smuggled her into a Palestinian solidarity meeting in New York City by convincing the organizers that she was Arab (South Indian, Middle Eastern, no one knew the difference). She says he was incredibly good with his students, an egalitarian when it came to relating to men and women, and was “never bad to look at.” I stared at her in awe – I’m still incredibly fixated upon the romantic ideal of the academic. Tes once took a class on academic celebrities…why again was I taking Sanskrit?
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I dreamt last night that Ari told off our crazy landlady. I woke up feeling refreshed. Evidently Ari’s moment of glory during Tuesday’s floodwaters has instilled me with hope for his abilities and motivations. I think these might be false hopes. He’s taken to simply quoting me on his blog rather than write his own entry. He rightly observed to his girlfriend that I buy his bedsheets for him. He still makes funny noises when he sees a large cockroach. He’s still tone-deaf. He still opens the fridge, overlooks his fresh and delicious loaf of real whole wheat bread and instead grabs the old, mouldy bleached white bread that doesn’t even belong to him. None of this makes any sense to the reader, I’m sure, but I did promise Ari that I’d be sure to make him look pathetic again. Done and done. But he can quote Ace Ventura and Dumb and Dumber with me, so it’s impossible for me to write him off entirely: “I think it’s the pâté.”
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Happy Thanksgiving, Americans. Go Gators. Enjoy your Friday festivities, SoFla crew. xoxo
3 comments:
Haha does Ari know that his blog is named after a wonderfully soulful R&B artist? I hope so.
Oh honey (our new roomie is teaching me sass). I hope that you know I wish I could see the Portland show of Iron & Wine as a dedication to you but alas, it's sold out and Jon will be here this weekend. That CD, The Creek Drank the Cradle, has gotten me through some tough times and I still recall it when I feel a bit down/nostalgic. Music is a blessed thing and I hope it and all the love that is out there for you get you through whatever tough times may come your way. Much love my friend.
youre at a cocktail party, its february 1979.
derrida is sitting on a rocking chair in the right-hand corner, surrounded by post-doc students and scholars who are all dressed in turkish half-slips, fanning him with sweetness and feeding him grapes. he's smoking a cigar, indulging them with brando-esque nonchalance, and staring at you.
in the left-hand corner is said, alone with a young bangladeshi man who seems to be engaging him in endlessly provocative conversation. a young woman walks up--- she might be, yes! she is! delillo's concubine- that one you've heard so much about.... her dissertation is entitled: "the impossible woman: conceptions of femininity in the postpostpostpostpostpostpostpost environment." "post" is footnoted, in the title, and actually her entire essay is composed of footnotes. there is, famously, actually no text in it. youve heard of this woman before.... but said, said is looking crosswise at ya.... he's throwing out an undeniable invitation.
who do you go for? derrida or said?
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