Mysticism and Paraguay

I'm not really sure why, but this has been an incredibly busy semester for me. It seems that every semester is frantic but this time around it's been really frantic. I'm usually in my office no later than 6:30 am (more often I arrive between 5:30 and 6) and I'm here until 4:30 pm at the earliest and generally until 5:30. That's a lot of hours and I don't know where the time goes. So, it doesn't make any sense for me to start attending more campus lectures and being more involved with extracurricular activities. But then again I figured the appealing thing about teaching at a university is, well, being at a university and actually learning something every once in a while. So, in addition to the Brian Greene lecture this week (see previous post) I also attended lectures on Islamic mysticism and Paraguay (that's two separate lectures, by the way).

Jad Hatem is a Catholic professor of Philosophy who teaches in Beirut, Lebanon (he had me right there!). He was at BYU giving a series of lectures, including one entitled "The 3 Nephites, The Bodhisattva, and the Mahdi: the 3 Nephites as a Paradigm Context of Comparative Religion" (okay, so English is definitely not his native language, but that may be the best title of a lecture I'll see all year). I missed that particular lecture (darned teaching assignments!) but I did catch his lecture entitled "Pure Love in Islamic and Christian Mysticism." I'd be lying if I said it was outstanding: it was somewhat scattershot. For instance, He would start to give us a typology of the three kinds of love, get through two, and then go off on a tangent and never come back, at least as far as I could tell (for instance, there is "simple love," which aims at possession of the beloved; "pure love," which does not seek possession, and "your-guess-is-as-good-mine-love"). But he did have some illuminating stories to tell from Islamic folklore (don't ask me for the details: I was too far away to read the board he would write the names on). He apparently founded a center in Lebanon dedicated to French Christian philosopher Michel Henry, who I've begun to look into as well.

Yesterday I attended a lecture by James Spalding, the Paraguayan ambassador to the US. Now, you'd think there's only so much you could say about a little country like Paraguay and it struck me that Mr. Spalding may often find himself alone by the punchbowl at gatherings with ambassadors from other countries. But in good diplomatic fashion, he was able to make Paraguay sound like a fascinating place which has got itself on track politically and economically. The real story, which he didn't tell and which I'm willing to bet his audience was hoping to hear, was how someone so obviously gringo-looking and -sounding got to be the ambassador for Paraguay (his college degrees were from US universities, which is common enough among the Latin American intelligenstia. But his last name and his ethnicity seemed as whitebread as a native Kansan). Some things will just have to remain a mystery. But, seriously, how great is it that I have a job where I get to attend lectures on Paraguay and String Theory and Islamic Mysticism in one week?

Pop Goes the Science

I guess Wittgenstein poisoned the waters for me to some extent. Back in the day, when I considered myself a Wittgenstein disciple (if it even makes sense for an undergraduate to identify himself in that way), his harsh remarks about "popularizers" of science left a lasting impression. Wittgenstein was not only one of the the most important logicians and philosophers of the twentieth century, he was also widely and deeply read in the physical sciences (he was also a respected engineer and architect and did some work in anatomy as well) and had little patience for popular, journalistic accounts of science. So, I've harbored lingering suspicions of science popularizers.

I'm not really entitled to hold such a view, given that my own scientific literacy is pretty limited. Nevertheless, I couldn't resist attending today's university forum, which featured Brian Greene of Columbia University. I guess you could say that Greene has more or less taken up the mantle of the Great-American-Explainer-of-Science from the late Carl Sagan, although his expertise is limited to the more abstruse field of string theory, rather than astronomy per se. I own a copy of The Fabric of the Cosmos (never read it but it LOOKS good, and I've given copies to my uncle and dad) and his earlier book, The Elegant Universe, sold over a million copies and was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. He also produced a PBS series on the latter.

Greene was quite the showman. He's a dynamic lecturer--which was certainly welcome, given the staid mode of presentation of most forum and devotional speakers. He clearly knows how to work a room, even if it has seven or eight thousand people in it. He did a pretty good job, giving thumbnail sketches of Newtonian physics, Einsteinian physics, Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle and, --Ta-Da! --String Theory in all of 35 minutes. While the presentation erred on the side of being overly facile (a decent junior-high student could have followed the presentation well enough), anyone that can cover so much ground so deftly in so little time is on to something. No mention of the controversies surrounding string theory these days (ugly tales are told about all sorts of professional pressures to toe the line on endorsing string theory--hiring decisions, tenure decisions and such hinge on being on the right side of the divide) but I guess that much was to be expected.

As it turns out, I think a Wittgensteinian defense could be mounted for such presentations, which, I must admit, I found entertaining if not terribly challenging. Wittgenstein seemed to hold the view that mastering a problem--really knowing one's way around it--implied that one could talk about it at all levels of granularity to all kinds of audiences. If that's the case, I think Greene did an impressive job indeed.

File this under: Music, Fascinating and Unlistenable

Well, maybe the title is overstating it just a tad. A few months back I discovered an intriguing piece by Alvin Lucier entitled "I am Sitting in a Room" (okay, I know that to any serious musicologist I'm showing up a little late to the party since Lucier's piece was composed and originally performed in 1969). Lucier is an interesting figure. He is an experimental composer whose work tends to explore the line between music and resonant sound. "I am Sitting in a Room" is his best known piece and in its original avatar (it has been recorded several times) it consisted of the composer uttering the following words:

I am sitting in a room, different from the one you are in now. I am recording the sound of my speaking voice and I am going to play it back into the room again and again, until the resonant frequencies of the room reinforce themselves so that any semblance of my speech, with perhaps the exception of rthym is destroyed. What you will hear then, are the natural resonant frequencies of the room, articulated by speech. I regard this activity not so much as a demonstration of a physical fact but more as a way to smooth out any irregularities my speech might have.

The same passage, now recorded, is in fact played back in that same room, and recorded again, thus capturing--as Lucier points out--the resonant frequencies of the room itself. The entire process is repeated again and again, for some fifteen minutes or so, until any recognizably human qualities of his voice have been supplanted by a kind of ringing, tinny resonance that follows in only the most general contours the original inflections of his voice. By the time the recording / playback cycle has reached its final iteration, it has become a sample of pure resonance, a kind of aural snapshot of the acoustic properties of the room itself.

One of the things that makes this composition so striking is that Lucier himself is a chronic stutterer (hence the allusion to the "irregularities" of his speech) and there is something touchingly human and vulnerable about his own voice. Its gradual transformation into something wholly other--a pure acoustic effect generated by the physical properties of the room itself--is uncanny. It seems to accentuate the fact that what is most distinctively "our own" in our voice is inseparable from the spaces in which that voice is given utterance. While it's not a piece that is likely to reward repeated listenings, it is definitely a haunting work that invites reflection.

Strike Up the Band

With the coming of spring and the winding down of the school year, it's time for some of the end-of-the-school-year activities. A couple of days ago the winners of the "Inspirations" art contest were announced (see earlier post); last night Alex participated in a concert by the 5th grade orchestra. Well, it wasn't just his class: three other orchestras from the school performed as well. Alex's group performed four pieces, culminating in "Ode to Joy," which has been the tune of preference for all three kids these days (Alex figured out how to play it on the piano and showed Simon and Eva, so they end up banging it out with some regularity). Alex is playing the cello and really enjoying it. Of course in addition to learning such chestnuts as "Ode to Joy," he's also figuring out how to play "Smoke on the Water" and other such classics. If you think those four chords rock on the electric guitar, wait 'til you hear them on the cello!

"Obamania"

It's a couple of days after the fact, but I've just watched Obama's "Race and Religion" speech online. It's too early to say exactly how this speech will be remembered in American political history, but I think there's a very real possibility it will become one of the defining American political speeches of the last hundred years (I'm not alone in thinking this: see here for a similar appraisal). Obama, of course, has come under fire for being a politician that's all rhetoric and no substance. Such charges, when borne out, can or should be fatal. But I think that, regardless of the merit of such accusations in Obama's case, they miss the point. What is so intriguing about his presidential candidacy is the way in which he has transformed the rhetorical framework of race and politics in the US. Certainly his appeal to segments of the population that in years past wouldn't give an African-American liberal politician the time of day is striking and requires some explanation.

Here's my theory: moments when the political landscape is really transformed are few and far between (think about ordinary political discourse as Kuhn's "normal science" and the kinds of political transformation I have in mind as what Kuhn would call "revolutionary science"). What seems to make them possible--and I'm not trying to make a historical argument but rather a logical one--is the emergence of a politician or a political message that for whatever reason has unquestionably strong credentials in the eyes of his or her political base and yet "crosses over," speaking the language of the opposition in such a way that the opposition's position is legitimized in the eyes of his or her natural base. In Obama's case, no one could doubt his bona fides with the liberal wing of the Democratic party. But his genius lies in speaking fluently a language intelligible to conservatives as well. This kind of political "bilingualism" or capacity to translate the concerns of one segment of the political spectrum into terms intelligible to his own political base makes it natural to see him as someone capable of breaking political stalemates over the most divisive of issues (in the case of Obama, race). I've long thought that if a conservative really wanted to see the country turn more to the right on some given issue, the best way to bring that about is for the case to be made, not by a conservative but a charismatic, rhetorically gifted liberal. And vice versa. Whether one is conservative or liberal, what one really should desire is not so much a candidate that mirrors one's own views and belongs to one's "own party" as an articulate and persuasive spokesman for that cause on the other side of the aisle. Only in that way can inroads be made in convincing one's true target audience--the "opposition"--of the wisdom of one's own position.

So, does it matter what Obama believes? I don't think a lot of voters really care about the nitty gritty of his health care plan or his foreign policy stance. In almost any other political election and with regard to almost any other political candidate, this would be deeply troubling (I think of the not-insignificant number of McCain supporters who according to exit interviews voted for McCain in the primaries because they wanted him to "end the war in Iraq." Gulp. Now, that's bad stupid). But there is a nontrivial and nondeleterious sense in which voters needn't be obliged to support Obama because they agree with all the particulars of his policies. One reason why so many voters seem to be reaching out to Obama is because they see in him what they want to see in him: namely, someone capable of changing the national conversation about race (of course the argument I've made here would put me in this camp. But I hasten to add that this would not be my only reason for voting for Obama). Long-standing issues such as racism and affirmative action are to a large extent issues about perception. And the capacity to change the way such issues are perceived--even if the policy particulars would still need to be worked out--may be reason enough to support Obama's candidacy. I think there are other reasons besides, but this one may be sufficient. I'll hazard an (un)educated guess: in the same way that the phrase "Reagan Democrat" has entered our political vocabulary, "Obama Republican" will soon become a commonly used term as well.

Art Attack

Yesterday was a red letter day for the Laraway boys. Their school features a yearly "Inspirations" art contest, with categories including photography, painting, music, literature, etcetera. Alex entered a photograph he took at the Provo airport and Simon entered one of his landscapes and a picture he took of a soldier in a forest made of broccoli, asparagus, and biscuit dough (and, really, aren't those the best kinds of forests?). Alex won first prize for his photo and Simon won first place for both his picture and his photo.

Thank heavens that genetics is not destiny (at least on my side of the family) because I took art classes all the way through my senior year of high school and by the time I finished, I couldn't do any better than Alex and Simon could at eleven and eight years old. All those hours spent traipsing around the Prado and the Louvre must have paid off.

When the Wind Blows

Eva has lately taken to writing. She writes notes and letters and makes signs for her bedroom door. We're lucky if we can keep her working in the medium of paper (and not, say, walls, or a computer screen). Her spelling is as creative as her verse. I asked her to write a poem for me last night and the above text is what she came up with, sounding each word out for herself. The result is strangely appealing (if I do say so myself); a kind of e.e. cummings-esque work. The poem is called "win the wind blows" ["When the Wind Blows"]. Here's a transcription, followed by a translation, of sorts.

at nite the
wind blos but
no bute no
amials that are
a sle can not
even the aminols
can good nit
for nao

[At night the
wind blows but
Nobody no
animals that are
asleep cannot
even the animals
can good night
for now].

Alex and Dad's Excellent Mexican Adventure

Okay, so this post will wreak havoc with chronology. But you remember Last Year in Marienbad, right? To quote Woody Allen, "Yeah, I get it. It's all flashbacks." Alex and I went to Mexico in mid-January of this year. The reason was pretty simple: I had to use an airline ticket by the end of the month and it wasn't too expensive to get another ticket for Alex. We kept pretty busy for a week. We arrived on Sunday, January 20 and the next day we headed to Teotihuacán, where we got our fair share of exercise climbing up and down the pyramids, a sunburn, and some nice pictures.

The rest of the week was spent museum-hopping in Mexico City, with a brief detour to Tlaxcala, a small city an hour and a half away from DF, where a few years back I had given week-long courses on several occasions at the local university.

It had been several years since I had been in Mexico and I had forgotten how completely US chain stores and restaurants have penetrated Mexican culture. I'm not too ashamed to admit that we took advantage of them a few times. But a real highlight had to be the massive Iron Maiden advertisement. It took me a while to realize they're for shoes (how much, you may ask? 510 pesos, or about $50. A bit too rich for my blood). Pre-modern, modern, post-modern, capitalist, post-capitalist. Whatever. We had fun.

Uncle Phillip: doing better; Kumar: just fine.

Put this on the list of phone calls you never want to get: Mom called on Thursday to let us know Uncle Phillip was in the hospital with serious kidney problems. According to whatever kind of test they run, his kidneys were functioning at 2% capacity. The good news is that he's responded well to dialysis and is back home. We're all relieved to know things have stabilized, but there's no denying that we're still concerned and are hoping and praying for the best.

On a lighter note, Michelle and I watched Bottle Rocket (1996) again this week. It was Wes Anderson's first feature film and we had watched his latest film (The Darjeeling Limited) a couple of days before. The Darjeeling Limited was, I think, a disappointment. A great premise, some great locations, some great actors. But the film was more grating than great. All the Andersonisms® were there: the offbeat late 60s soundtrack, the slowmo scenes that want to let the music do the talking, the funky, oversaturated set pieces, etc. He's come under some heat for continuing to scratch some of his itches--beginning with The Life Aquatic (2004), I think--and I certainly see the point of the criticism. But I must admit that the Andersonisms® never really bothered me much before. Bottle Rocket was refreshing to watch: the script is studded with gems. Cowritten by Anderson and Owen Wilson, it's enough to make you forget that Wilson is a great writer and it's kind of a shame that his lovable doofus persona sometimes obscures the fact that writing may be his strongest suit.

Michelle tried, unconvincingly, to persuade me that she loved the Luke Wilson character because he's such a good guy. Yeah. And it doesn't hurt to have the look of a sensitive heartthrob with puppydog eyes (and a director enamored with long, patient close ups). We talked about Bottle Rocket as a heist film concerned with the creation of an aesthetic object (kudos again to my friend Daryl Lee, who's teaching a class on this theme): the point of the thing, of course, is not so much the robbery that Dignan and the gang try to pull off, but the loving preparation that goes into it, as if the crime itself were but an afterthought to its own planning. The quirky notes here and there--the love affair with the Paraguayan (not Mexican but Paraguayan!) hotel maid and the easily distracted old Indian safecracker Kumar--haven't yet become mannerisms and they work very well. I think the films to come, particularly The Royal Tenenbaums [2001] (maybe his masterpiece so far) and The Life Aquatic are also very, very good.

The Congo-Ecuador-Provo Connection

One of the perks of living where I do is that I occasionally come into contact with old friends and acquaintances that I would otherwise never see. I was surprised and delighted a year or so ago to see Jean Kapenda, who I had known during my mission in Ecuador in the late 1980s. Jean was in Provo to look into the possibility of applying to BYU's MPA program. He happened to run into a friend of mine, Daryl Lee, who teaches in the French department. Long story short: Jean and I ended up chatting briefly again and I was glad to hear that he would be applying to BYU.

Fast-forward a year: Jean and his family (his wife Marianita and his daughters Christie and Mary Ann) are all in Provo while Jean works on his degree. A trained sociologist originally from the Congo, he has taken an active interest in the history of Black Ecuadorians and has done some important work on African emigration to Ecuador (here’s a link. Here’s another one). I'm not even sure how many languages he speaks: at least Lingala, French, Spanish, and English fluently and probably a number of others besides (He published a Lingala/Spanish dictionary with support from UNESCO). Anyway, Jean and his family came over for dinner on Sunday and it was a delight to visit with them (I can’t believe that Marianita was pregnant with their older daughter, Christie, when I knew them in Ecuador. Now Christie’s a student at BYU). They’re really a wonderful family: kind and generous to a fault. It was wonderful to see them again.

It's Easy to Complain...

... about living in a cultural desert in Utah. Not that my expectations are especially high, mind you. I'm from Idaho after all. But it's difficult to live in Utah without complaining about the provincialism of local culture. It's almost a pastime here. But that's usually not quite fair. Case in point: last week Michelle and I caught Brad Mehldau and his trio in concert in Salt Lake City and this week we went to a poetry reading by Billy Collins at BYU.

We've been Mehldau fans for five or six years now, ever since my colleague Greg Stallings (a pretty good jazz pianist in his own right) lent me some of his albums. Suffice it to say that anyone who can create both an achingly beautiful interpretation of "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered" and an amazing version of Radiohead's "Exit Music (For a Film)" back to back on the same album has got to be okay. We saw him in Madrid in November of 2004 and were able to see him in Salt Lake City last week. His trio was top-notch: Larry Grenadier, his long-time bassist, accompanied him, along with Jeff Ballard on drums. He played some new tunes, "so new they don't have names yet" as he explained, along with a Thelonius Monk tune (can't remember which), "Countdown" from his first album, and covers of "Baby Plays Around" by Elvis Costello and "Holland" by Sufjan Stevens. Not only are his chops impeccable, Mehldau is always interesting for mining the alt-indie pop world for great songs.

The Billy Collins visit was quite unexpected: on Monday I received an e-mail noting that not only would he be doing a public reading of his poetry on Friday at noon but that he would also be available to meet with faculty and answer questions. Collins was the US Poet Laureate from 2001-2003 and may well be the most widely read American poet since Robert Frost (for a fun animation accompanying his reading of one of his poems, "The Dead," see below). Michelle and I have been big fans of his for quite a while and, given that Michelle is organizing some activities at the kids' school for National Poetry Month in April, we were both thrilled to participate. We both attended the Faculty Q&A (where Michelle could ask him about his views regarding the memorization of poetry, a topic she's been interested in lately) and then the reading itself, which had to have been the biggest such event I've ever seen--I would estimate that somewhere around 1000 people attended and I doubt that anyone was disappointed (see local press here). His poems are always punchy, humorous, and "hospitable" (he doesn't like the word "accessible," which he thinks suggests images of wheelchairs going up ramps). He read a number of poems that we know well, along with some newer ones that haven't yet been published. The line to get signed copies of his work was so long we finally gave up. It's a wonderful problem to have, especially in a "culture desert." Then again, maybe we were just thirsty.