This afternoon I leave Lexington, Kentucky, for one of the last times as a student or faculty member of the university. Sure, I’ll be back for a few days at the end of July to finish up my Honors writing seminar, “Race, Slavery, Freedom, & Memory in the United States,” but for all practical purposes when I leave the Patterson Office Tower today I am walking away from it with a real sense that my tenure here is actually over.
Empty offices are equally sad and exciting things, forcing one to think deeply about life and realities. My office at Canisius College was empty when I unloaded twelve or so boxes of books there about a month ago. I sat and thought quietly about the things that are bound to come in my time there. I was excited about those things, but if I am honest I suppose I was more than a little scared, as well.
This empty office is producing some of the same feelings, but from the opposite perspective. I remember visiting Lexington and the Department of History as a prospective PhD student. Optimistic. Uncertain. Afraid. I remember the excitement of choosing to make UK my academic home for a few years. I remember many, many exciting and fun moments during my times as a student and then as a visiting member of the faculty of both the Department of History and of the Honors Program. Frankly, I also remember more than a few things that were not so exciting or pleasant. Some of those things happened to others, my friends. Some of them happened to me. Some I helped happen.
With the exception of bookends and volumes that belong to this office, the shelves are empty. Save for the readings for today’s class, the desk is bare. Empty. Bare. But only the shelves and the desk. This office and this tower hold lots of memories. Not only mine. But I am glad to have contributed to the collective memory of this place. Though I might not stay with it, it will stay with me.
Knowing I have a friend or two who enjoys Moleskine notebooks as much I do, I thought I’d make certain to pass along a recent discovery on my part in the world of Moleskines—the City Notebook. The City Notebook takes the tried and true notebook, used by the likes of Van Gogh and Hemingway, and adapts it for use in some of the world’s most famous cities. Also, check out Moleskine City Blogs.
I, for one, look forward to using my new MCN in NYC as soon as I can grab the Amtrak from Buffalo later this summer.
While I might not be the mayor of this place like Kyle claims (repeatedly I might add), sitting here and working feels good. Feels right. Maybe Spot or Caffe Aroma will feel the same. Maybe. If not, there are always visits back to Frankfort Ave. Because, thankfully, as this song attests, “some things in life may change, but some things they stay the same.”
Several months ago (or maybe even a year now), I became a fan of the music of Damien Rice. Starbucks played selections from 9 enough to make me like it whether I wanted to or not. But I really wanted to.
The range of emotion expressed both in his lyrics and in his voice is amazing. There are plenty of videos on YouTube of the man in action. But the following is one that I can’t seem to stop repeating on iTunes as I work on the syllabus for my summer course on “Race, Slavery, Freedom, and Memory in the United States.”
And Lyrics:
I remember it well
The first time that I saw
Your head around the door
‘Cause mine stopped working
I remember it well
There was wet in your hair
I was stood in stare
And time stopped moving
I want you here tonight
I want you here
‘Cause I can’t believe what I found
I want you here tonight want you here
Nothing is taking me down, down, down…
I remember it well
Taxied out of a storm
To watch you perform
And my ships were sailing
I remember it well
I was stood in your line
And your mouth, your mouth, your mouth…
I want you here tonight
I want you here
‘Cause I can’t believe what I found
I want you here tonight want you here
Nothing is taking me down, down, down…
Except you my love. Except you my love…
Come all ye lost
Dive into moss
And hope that my sanity covers the cost
To remove the stain of my love
In paper mache
Come all ye reborn
Blow off my horn
I’m driving real hard
This isn’t love, this is porn
God will forgive me
But I, I whip myself with scorn, scorn
I wanna hear what you have to say about me
Hear if you’re gonna live without me
I wanna hear what you want
I remember December
And I wanna hear what you have to say about me
Hear if you’re gonna live without me
I wanna hear what you want
What the hell do you want?
No, this post is not about what some of my more systematic friends might hope, but on my drive with Lucas this morning, I heard the following on NPR. Listen. Perhaps this is the new heaven and new earth and I need to rethink some things after all.
In his customary way, Wendell Berry pens an insightful essay in the May 2008 issue of Harper’s Magazine.
The problem with us is not only prodigal extravagance but also an assumed limitlessness. We have obscured the issue by refusing to see that limitlessness is a godly trait. We have insistently, and with relief, defined ourselves as animals or as “higher animals.” But to define ourselves as animals, given our specifically human powers and desires, is to define ourselves as limitless animals—which of course is a contradiction in terms. Any definition is a limit, which is why the God of Exodus refuses to define Himself: “I am that I am.”
WB’s analysis of the limits of humanity is quite useful. Read the entire essay.
In preparation for the upcoming movie and in celebration of the end of the semester, I decided to spend a day or so with Peter, Susan, Lucy, and Edmund in Narnia. I’ve always liked the following passage, though I wonder why things often seem to work exactly the opposite for me.
“Aslan, Aslan. Dear Aslan,” sobbed Lucy. “At last.”
The great beast rolled over on his side so that Lucy fell, half sitting and half lying between the front paws. He bent forward and just touched her nose with his tongue. His warm breath came all round her. She gazed up into the large wise face.
“Welcome child,” he said.
“Aslan,” said Lucy, “you’re bigger.”
“That is because you are older, little one,” answered he.
“Not because you are?”
“I am not. But every year you grow, you will find me bigger.”
