Tempus fugit

Well, here it is--July 25th--and you might be wondering (OK, probably not) what I have been doing all summer. Well, the answer is not much and a lot. It all depends on how you measure events.

My travel schedule falls under the "a lot" column:

May Rome and Greece with James Blakeley, a history professor at my college, and 19 freshmen, including 17 girls. (You do the estrogen math.)

June Queretaro, Mexico for the NAACI conference which I organized along with my colleagues Susan Gardner (Canada- the sane country in North America) and Eugenio Echeverria (Mexico.)

July Oxford, England for a Inter-Disciplinary.net conference on Childhood, followed by a visit to Pennine Community up in Wakefield

July-August South Carolina (as if it is not hot enough here in New York) for the AAPT conference on teaching philosophy

OK- so lots of traveling, presenting, listening. learning--all accompanied by packing and unpacking.

In the "not much" category is reading and really digging into new ideas. My colleague, whom I run into occasionally when I appear on campus to deal with various administrative stuff (a technical term, most likely unfamiliar to those of you who do not deal with the esoterics of paper pushing)-- well he is always reporting on having read about five books in the last week and just makes me:

(a) exhausted

(b) guilty as a student who is falling way behind on the homework and has the sinking feeling that there is no way in the known universe that she can ever, ever catch up.

So, in that department I am seriously lagging. But not to worry! Summer stretches luxuriously ahead, right? Oh no! Are fall syllabi due already??? What happened to the summers of my youth that lasted for months? And by "months" I mean psychological periods of long time, not calendar time.

So gather ye rosebuds while ye may. And, perhaps, have another pomegranate martini.

Betrayal and remorse

I had gone out east to visit Pat but I quickly realized that this was just a ruse. The overnight visit proceeded as always with much discussion but now there was another there. And I knew I would be revealed. My secret could simply not remain.

As soon as I arrived home, he knew. He took one look at me and he could tell. He could tell that there had been another. His eyes radiated questions, disappointment, unbelief. What could I say? What could I do? The scent of the other lingered on me and I knew that he knew and that he knew that I knew that he knew. Apologies burst from my lips, crying promises that it would never happen again. Never. That no one could ever replace him in my heart or my bed. No--there was only him. But the scent of the other formed a miasma of distrust, of betrayal between us.

I will win him back, I vowed! I can do this. With what charm or gesture can I recapture his trust and devotion, so callously and thoughtlessly trampled on my by wild, wanton and careless actions? I fell to my knees before me, begging his forgiveness. And he gave it. His generous heart opened and I was redeemed.

"Hektor," I promised, "I will never let Carly, Pat's lab, in my lap again. There is only you. Only you." But can love regrow where trust has been shattered...? Yes, in a dog's heart which is bigger than the universe and forgives us our sins.

Carly Hektor

There is a Unicorn in the Garden

Well, not actually. Instead there is a peacock on the roof. The roof of my neighbor, to be precise. The attached photo is evidence # 465.23 why I need a better telephoto lens, but I digress.

Sharp and particularly well educated readers (by that I mean educated with respect to American humorists of the mid-twentieth century and most likely limited to my brother) will recognize the reference to the short story by James Thurber in which a husband starts to comment upon the presence of a unicorn in his garden, much to the growing enragement of his wife. Let’s just say the whole thing works out well for him as his wife is carted off to the ‘booby hatch” for calling in a unicorn. But I digress yet again.

Last night a peacock did mysterious appear on the roof of my neighbor. No explanation. We all trouped out to marvel at the bird who strolled back and forth against the evening sky, blithely ignoring the growing crowds below. Despite threats to hose him off, everyone pretty much simply gawked, made lame jokes about whether the house owner had a license (that would be me) and eventually we all went inside to our respective homes, leaving him to roost as he chose. Later the bird flew (did you know peacocks could actually fly?) to the roof across the street and then onto another backyard. “Hey, dad, there is a giant bird here!” was heard by my husband as he walked Hektor around the block. No “Missing peacock” signs have yet appeared on the telephone poles.

I hope he found his way home or at the very least found an amiable pea hen. But then, isn’t the peacock sacred to Hera? Hmm... let that be a warning to all errant husbands.

Les Belles Heures- Prayerbooks and Distractions

We visited the Metropolitan exhibit of the complete Belles Heures book for Jean, Duc de Berry, created by two brothers, the Limbourgs. Each page is exquisitely decorated with filigree ornamentation and scenes to illustrate the bible stories, psalms, and stories of the saints. I try to imagine the Duc or his child wife idly (or devoutly?) thumbing the pages, eyes glancing at the text but seduced ultimately by the saturated hues and vivid images of ecstasy and death. I wondered if the faces in the miniature drawings were of people the brother artists knew, and liked --or perhaps did not. Anticipating Michelangelo’s placement of a particularly pesky cardinal in hell on his Sistine Chapel ceiling?

In a world of death, intrigue, richness and plague that was the fifteen century, how did the sumptuous book so carefully crafted for a political figure of power and wealth function? What did it mean? Really?

Now I simply gazed upon each page, using a magnifying glass handily provided by the Met to wonder at the detail, even as the ornate language resembled more organic shapes than words with meaning. In what ways did this artistic creation capture a moment in time that also expanded to absorb and transform the Christian mythological vision of good, evil and the endless battle between them?

Paris and memento mori

Nicki showed me the catacombs of Paris this past week. dark winding tunnels underground that allow single file visitors to course through passages dimly lit and some mysterious but welcome ventilation. First one comes upon the carved temples of sandstone, miniature palaces of some forgotten civilization of elves. But entering the miles of ossuary is what captures one's attention. Piles of head-high bones, neatly stacked like firewood with skulls artistically placed in layers line each side of the tunnel. In front of each section is a sign which informs the passerby of what cemetery and date these bones came from and when they were placed here. The dates range from the late 1700s to late 1800s.

As one moves through this underground kingdom of the dead one encounters carefully placed quotes from authors ranging from Homer to Seneca up to 19th century Frenchmen. Each one reminds the living that they are really looking into a mirror, even if unimagined as such.

When we finally exited a guard checked my purse. Someone right before our group had tried to steal a skull. Somehow I doubt Hades would have let that person go unscathed. The dead have a way of catching up with one.

Off to Paris!

This evening I leave for paris with a group of Honors Program students and an art professor. This is a wonderful group of students so I am optimistic that all will go well. Even if it looks as if it will rain the entire time we are there. We can always hope that the weather report will be wrong. Is that possible?

I am missing a couple of wonderful students who could not join us. We will toast them while we are there.

Metaphor contest

What does Paris have to do with this photograph?