love affairs

How many love affairs can one person carry on and still keep herself together? My museum work... it is absolutely addictive, and hearing my colleague Gwen, a philosophy doctoral candidate, talk about how after her degree, she still wouldn't mind going into arts administration in a museum doesn't exactly discourage my fervor. Neither does the curator's approval of my Beiaardmuseum work and wish that I had the time to do the same for YUCMI. It's taken me three days to master InDesign (and to fall in love with it) and turn out the handsomest publication I have ever made. It will go for a run of 400 to 500 copies, and it's got a Yale blue cover--yes, InDesign has Yale blue built right into the color presets. But that's just the first affair.
Tonight I played the carillon for the first time since my final exam five days and an ocean ago. And even slugging through difficult pieces at an American standard keyboard, so different from what I learned them on, in the summer heat became so intensely absorbing that I realized I would have gone on no matter what the conditions were. The discovery that I need to play on an almost daily basis is frightening. The odds are against anyone who wants to play the carillon on a regular basis for the rest of her life. And yet with all the other things I'm able to do, that's the one thing I know I want as part of my future.

The Yale Memorial Carillon suddenly felt so light, it could have almost been a practice instrument--I wanted more resistance out of it! Perhaps the difference is due to the recent work by Meeks & Watson. But frankly, I think the carillon has stayed the same, and my arms have gotten more massive. Now that I reinspect them, I realize how much more muscular they are than they ever have been. I barely need to practice on the real carillon for my upcoming concert--the opposite of my situation in Mechelen. But I could have sworn that in the past, St. Rombouts had felt slightly lighter than Yale. Now Yale is perhaps a bit too spongy.

Afterwards I knelt in awe in Memorial Chapel at the base of the tower, gazing up through the darkness at that little fan vault ceiling--almost laughable in comparison to the originals at Oxford--and my body didn't know how to react to the wonder I was feeling. The default reaction was tears, but those were hardly appropriate. The low perpetual hum, the golden glow of the single lamp, the wooden reliefs lining the walls over monumental wooden seats, the stained glass commemorating disciplines and intellects, all seemed to converge on the point of a myth about to commence, something wondrous or terrible coming and as we prepared to defend all that is good. At the same time, my dreams of a big mock-religious church wedding faded as I saw that I could have the ceremony right there in that beautiful little non-consecrated chapel with one of the most gorgeous carillons in the world ringing out in joy. Not that my plans get any more specific than place and instrumental accompaniment, but I can't believe that in all the time I spent quietly in that chapel, the idea never appealed to me.

So, that was grabbed-by-the-throat love affair number two. I guess Yale, New Haven, and biking could be bundled up into number three. Because tonight I biked leisurely on what I keep telling myself is a badass single speed bike (really just a beat up thing with broken shifters that Bob threw together for me after I proffered Belgian chocolate) through campus in the perfect gloaming and perfect tank top weather. And I was overcome by its beauty, the undulating Gothic spires and monumental Classical arcades, the towers so dense you can't see one for the other before it, the elm-lined streets, the lush courtyards and greens... and just when I thought I couldn't bear it, contrast. For the first time, I saw the heavy wooden doors of the Wall Street gate to Silliman wide open, floodlights transforming the dusty air inside into a solid, inviting mass of light. Splelunking time. I hid the bike and wandered around, crunching on tire-sculpted gravel, remembering my ACCESS/YSECS days of yore. Hopping down the stairs for a good romp through the basement, I stopped short at the big asbestos warning sign, caught my breath, and romped straight out into the new gelato store across the street. I savored my melting lemon and giandiua scoops on the steps outside, gazing straight into the cavernous mouth of SM wishing for a spelunking partner.

And then home I biked, flipping my temp baby over outside the front door to manually shift the chain into a lower gear, since that's the only way to do it.

So the grass is still greener on the other side, no matter where you are now. But for me, the grass is only greener once I'm on it--pretty much the best way to live. I only grudgingly left Europe for the States because I was just fine there, and now I'm dizzy with exuberance to be back.