There are all sorts of reasons why I shouldn't be allowed to write blogs in the middle of the night, least of all when I'm indulging some demonic wish to make myself tired tomorrow simply because I can. I finished my exam paper for Bernet today, so that's the last major piece of writing I have to do in Belgium. Things slow down a little from here, which is just good in every possible way. I need a break, I won't get a real one until the exams (only 2) and the thesis defense are over, plus I have this book profile that I was given to do almost a year ago and should have been done months and months before now. Such is the nature of things, I'm done beating myself up over it. I made a schedule and it's getting done on time, what more can be expected of me shall not be mentioned.

All this being said, I am writing a blog whether it's a good idea or not, because I have stories to tell that are already late (see above forfeiture of self-upbraiding). Number one, H.A. Nethery came to visit me. He came at what others might think was a bad time, but honestly, I don't know if I would have made it through those 9 excruciating days without him. With grace, insight and generosity -- as is his natural disposition, which I maintain against his irrepressible modesty -- he read the entire damn thing and commented on every page. He even sat through verbal rehearsals of my intro and conclusion, and without that interlocution I think my thesis would have suffered from the inevitable pitfalls of my otherwise self-enclosed ideality (for any Kierkegaard readers out there, is this enclosing reserve? or am I still just a depthless aesthete?)
He fit in Europe like a hand in a glove, though I think the likes of him should take up residence in Berlin or Prague. Leuven is many things, but it is not cool. I won't rant, but let's just say metal shirts, tattoos and mirrored aviators were like a breath of free air in this stifling sea of sameness. [Too much alliteration? Maybe. I found a note to self in the submitted version of my thesis. In the introduction, no less. It reads "Put something else in here." Dave drew my attention to the Freudian connotation, no further comments needed.]

Second on the list was the Kierkegaard weekend, hosted by my promoter, Paul Cruysberghs at his sister's summer house in Trou de Bra, a gorgeous hilly region in Wallonia. The house was the presbytery of a church (congregation 15) and between the church and the presbytery -- where I was sleeping -- is a hugely elaborate grotto immitating in its way the grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes, but with a touch of Belgian nationalism and ostentatious (gold) kitsch. I was struck by it, and a little afraid. Religious zealotry has always given me pause, which is not to say I think its irredeemable.
There were ten of us, 6 grad students and 4 others, some professors, a priest, and an author by the name of Sarah Miano, who wrote Encyclopedia of Snow which I remember being recommended to me a while ago. It was really a very intense weekend. Kierkegaard by day, drinking and talking and chess at night, it was a little strange, and I had trouble adjusting at first, but Margherita was there, and Viktor as well, so it didn't take me long to get over my incredulousness and join in to the best of my ability. I can't drink like these Europeans though, so much is certain.
The Sickness Unto Death is a brilliant little book. It's little and huge at the same time. So direct, like a doctor giving a diagnosis to another doctor. Reading Kierkegaard seems to be all about preparation. You have to prepare yourself to understand him, no matter how obscure he seems at times. It's like you have to will that it makes sense, and then suddenly you're standing naked before everyone who's ever read this text. His descriptions are profound multi-layered distillations of religious, philosophical and psychological experience and there seems to be nothing that escapes his tireless, even obsessive insight. He was a force of nature, and I stagger to think that I have just submitted a commentary that pairs him with Lacan, who, in his way, has the same kind of power.

I am driveling. Was there something else? Not that I can think of. And so, photos:



Yay! Blogspot fixed the photo formatting!! Cut and paste freedom! This is H.A. and I, doing what we do best in the Blauwe Kater. Nevermind why I'm holding the candle, that beer was 11.5%.


My friends Dave and Astrid that same night. Dave is the one I play MarioKart with, his company is always refreshing, even Arnis notices. As it turns out I just tuned into the HTML obviousness, so it wasn't Blogspot's problem at all.

There are many, many reasons why I love Maastricht, but this is just one. From what we can muddle out of the faded Dutch inscription, a guy was there on that bridge for 70 years, somehow distributing cigarettes to the townsfolk. Statues, like time capsules right out in the open. I wish we had more in the States.
This, is another. It's a bizarre installation in an old zoo cage, in the middle of the municipal park. I touched it up in snipshot.com because it was horribly washed out, it didn't come out of the camera this way. As it turns out the oscillation between html editing and "compose"ing is still a pain, so Blogspot's back in the fire of my frustration.
and H.A. and Charles on the platform in Liege. Charles and I had turned in our theses that day, so we all went to Maastricht. God how I love that place, nothing but escape and celebration. If I make it through my PhD I think I'm going to apply for a post-doc in Maastricht. Somehow, some way, I will live there someday. Does it rhyme? Good, now I have a mantra.

Okay... tired. It's ridiculously late for me. I will forego the alarm, just because I can.

Love,

Cakes