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After satisfying ourselves that the bums had been reinstated on Election Day, we repaired to the Chapel to hear the Cologne-based group Sequentia take on Hildegard von Bingen. With characteristic Teutonic rigor, Sequentia was not content merely to have recorded her entire musical oeuvre, but felt obliged to go on tour to present a stage version of Hildegard's most memorable work, the Ordo Virtutem, or Play of the Virtues.
So there we are in the van, cruising along Interstate 85 north on the way to listen to bells at the Cedar Creek Gallery in Creedmoor.
In the beginning, we shared 8K of RAM among three school districts. Our 200-pound teletype burped block-cap objections in near-real time from the back of a math classroom. You couldn't use it during class, so you waited till after school when the place became a detention center filled with juvenile delinquents with whom it was best to avoid eye contact.
Fred and I drove through a rural wood where the dappled light fell on high fences topped with barbed wire. At a guard shack straddling the road, we gave our social security numbers to a man with a machine gun, got a badge and parked near a castle of thick green glass, replete with myriad antennae. This, then, was the Central Intelligence Agency.
Few acts of intimacy between oneself and one's partner can compete for sheer sensual joy with the giving and getting of a haircut. Though you may begin the practice out of parsimony, you will continue it out of love.
I still remember the first time I was laid off.
There are 37,000 species of spiders, and about half of them lived in the house where I grew up. They used to terrify me by loitering in my bathrobe, my jeans, my closet. The World Book Encyclopedia claimed they preferred eating insects to eating people, but that little ruse didn't fool me for a minute. How many flies and moths do you think they expected to find in the left leg of my trousers night after night?
I've been thinking a lot about beauty. Also racism.
I remember when I used to open my mail.
On a muggy Saturday, I pull off an unassuming road outside Lillington, N.C., into the dusty parking lot of the Harnett Correctional Institution.
From native American vision quests to Harvard professors' experiments with LSD, the desire for altered states of consciousness has characterized the coming of age. Though today's playing field has changed from my own college days, when we sought enlightenment via streaking and late-night games of contract bridge, freshmen still get by with a little help from their friends.
Every hippie stockbroker and chamomile farmer, every militiaman and starving bohemian has at least one television set today. Ex-cons two weeks out of stir proudly point to a Magnavox with an Aaron Rents sticker on it. Chinese immigrants arriving from a city where only one in four people even has a bathroom will exclaim as they debark not, "Where's the bathroom?" but, "Where do I buy a TV?"
Not everyone gets to take a summer vacation, of course. Sadder still, most of those who do will focus way too much on using it wisely.
I flushed the toilet today, and boy, I wish you could have been there.
Chinese people moving to the States always take American first names, while we invariably keep our old ones when studying foreign tongues at home or even when moving East to start a new life in Boddhidharma's footsteps. We rename our Asian friends, of course, for our own convenience-because we cannot wrap our tongues around handles like "Xiaofeng" or "Hsiu-Chuan," though they have little difficulty pronouncing "Kevin" or "Victor."
I thought rubber rooms were a figure of speech until they put my friend in one last week.
It's 1997, and some of you have started thinking about getting a job.
In the workaday world of office clothing for white-collar drones-into which many of you will presently matriculate-most men dress like Dilbert, not Donald Trump. Women have cornered the market on bright colors and scintillating variations, for which they pay the penalty of polyester in summer and high heels at any time; in men's dress there is little room for personal statement and less for anything you'd call flair. A man's place is simply to hover in the background, smiling innocuously without clashing, one hand tucked comfortably in his trousers pocket counting quarters.
The night of Hurricane Fran, when we heard the first 50-year old tree splinter, I gathered up my family and bolted for the cellar. The next morning I sat in a borrowed office-like 81,000 others in Durham, we had no electricity-and got paged by an angry East Campus colleague.
We see what we expect to see.
