At home. I liked my teaching for all that it was unstructured. By liking my teaching I do not claim to have been an effective teacher. I claim to have enjoyed the process of delivering the material. I also appreciated the discussion of material in the tutorial. The rest is trivia. Little tit-bits of discussion with people floating in my horizon but not effectively affecting my life. All this a parenthesis to my life of revelry in the world of N. All this an essential aspect of the process that powers my life at a time when this is devoted to the appreciation of N. They are fulfilling in the most amazing ways those early stages of a love affair. The question is how to maintain the inertia and keep them going. Only time will tell.

Done! Well never really done till the morning when everything is printed out, yet both lecture and ppt are ready. About to go taste N's curry. I like the idea. A day of work and then rewards. How funny we are with our need for justification of pleasure. My account of Herakleios is done and now we need to see how the students will respond. I am slowly getting more relaxed about Tuesdays. The only hard thing about them is after all the early wake-up. The rest is fine. Over and out, off to dinner. The little image is Piero della Francesca on Heraclius.

I just woke up from a siesta. It felt absolutely essential, and yet I am now, 44 minutes of really heavy sleep later, in a state of slumber even as I slowly regain consciousness. Still, work has been done since the morning. The lecture is being written and yet another period of time with my students will be disposed of soon. I do see, however, how the change to light savings will produce brighter mornings at the expense of the evenings. I can see the light assuming a sun-set position and glow. Today feels like the day when the writer of this blog could be asked about his state of existence and he could answer: satis. Today was the sequell to 36 hours of complete satisfaction with the world around the present writer. So today I will post something that will not be inspired as it comes at the tail end of true excitement. Today I learned that one friend of mine will be getting married this summer. Why was I not informed?

Is it desire the spurs insecurity, or is it insecurity an aspect of desire. An element of chance that we appreciate simply because it escapes routine? In any case I exist in a state of happy, desirious insecurity. Unsure as to what I am doing and where I am going with this desire -and as a result increasily insecure in its possession - yet committed to its pursuit. This is all too complex I see. I do not intend to make it simpler though. I will, however, change the subject and discuss a good dinner. Yesterday I went out to a pretty fantastic French restaurant with Anthony. The food was spectacularly good, as was the "do zou vant zome mor guater sir" French on hormones service. Admitedly it was by a French guy so I should not mock him. It is however, difficult to take Frenchness too seriously in the super Anglo, and otherwise Asian environment of Vancouver. It was great chatting with Anthony. Reconnect automatically with the field. Tomorrow I will introduce him at the conference and will eventually go to dinner with him and with, it seems, το αντικείμενο του πόθου. Always interested in those dynamics. It is odd expressing oneself in this open accessible fashion. I do not intend to stop though. At least this way people have a glimpse into my mind. It may even be more honest.

The expectations game, the cynic and the romantic:

In every moment in our existence an action creates expectations of a reaction. A synthesis of this action and reaction leads to a state of existence, which itself is not static but rather creates expectations of further moments as well as further actions and reactions that lead from that one moment to the other. In fact, one could argue that for a whole series of action/reaction combinations, the creation of expectations that lead to projections regarding the future, which themselves end up defining the evolution of the set of actions and reactions that follow, becomes inevitable. It takes a particular kind of mental outlook to live those action/reaction scenaria focusing solely on their immediate outcomes and avoiding contemplations of the future. My own reason tells me that the short term view may actually be beneficial for my management of the said situations. My own mental temperament wants to order the world for the aeons to come. Reason and temperament therefore clash and I wonder what the result will be. By reason I am a cynic, by temperament a romantic. For the moment, as I leave those two elements to fight it out and decide, I assure myself with my basic desire to seize the day.

I am tired beyond belief. This is the first time that rock-climbing seems to have left me with pain. My left toe was so pressed during my climbs that today it is hard to step on it. As for my arms I can totally feel tham. This is the most complete workout that I have ever had in my life. It lasts for about half of the total three and a half to four hours which we dedicate to the whole visit and it is demanding. As I will not go next week with Anthony in town and myself at his conference, I am already feeling that I will fall behind. Beyond that there was quality time with my new friend. Today as a result of my bonviveurism (word exists?) I am sore, tired and in no state to do efficient work. Still I have started writing my lecture and I may have about half of it before I go to dinner at Maria's. I am looking forward to my bed later tonight.

Dinner last night was Pho-based. Very nice raw beef variety. Next time I need to add tripe. Next to the Vietnamese restaurant there was a long line of elderly ladies, keen as teenagers, patiently waiting in line (like true Canadians) to see the opening of the film "The Queen." This just to remind ourselves that we are not in the US. This country is peculiar this way. Let me note that those were all white grannies.

This is an image of my soul in a state of enthusiasm. It is I believe self-explanatory. I do not intend to post much more on this as sheer superstition, discretion, and the simple need to just listen to some music prevent me from doing so. In any case, life taken day by day. Today is good. Who knows about tomorrow. Cheers to all.

Weight lifted, lecture written, music appreciated, friend contacted, voice heard and image reconstructed with help from voice. I am still at home reading a book and thinking about posting a picture. In fact posting it as I write this. It is a picture of my lunch. How presumptious to assume that my lunch is of any interest to you. Still I made it myself using simple ingredients like potatos, onions, garlic and thinly chopped red Cale. Also milk and a series of herbs, of which thyme was the most agressive flavor. Funny how once again I spent all day more or less in one room coming to contant with me myself and I. At least I forayed out of the apartment for some errands. Well this is uninspired. I am off to deep space with Banks.

A day of grey, a day of domesticity, a day that followed strange intense dreams. I day that came after another which included troubled siesta and heart palpitations. Yet is is a day on which I can sip my coffee from my little esspresso cups, purchased sometime in 2001 or 2, I do not remember, in Madison Wisconsin. A day when I could stir the schiuma of my esspresso with my diminutive silver spoon, which arrived in the box Orlando dispatched from my previous abode. A day when my domestic dream became complete. Now I can be finally comfortable here. Naturally I exagerate.

At night, my subconscious produced odd stories about strange people, strange places and even stranger interactions and happenings. I lived in a house with three friendly, young women of the "professional variety" who were a pleasure to interact with, socially. Before that I was in a bar chatting with another woman in a flirty manner. A woman I should not be chatting with in a bar as I well know. Before that I was in... maybe Italy and saw a US colours Tu-22 Backfire Jet, plunge into a tunnel under a highway, after a very improbable, low speed - and by low I mean car in traffic-jam slow - flight and an equally improbable ninety degrees turn. Before that I was swimming in lanes in the sea where people were testing the speed of sound under water (huh?). And finally before that I was in a Toyota Prius with my friend Ian (the irony of Ian being the owner of a Toyota will not be lost to people who know him) driving towards some place which had a lot of starfish shaped intersections getting us constantly higher. Eventually we were out of the car and I had to run for my life hunted by some rather annoying hoodlooms. I jumped off the castle (yes I know, where did it come from?) crinelations and flew to safety - maybe an allusion to my new rock-climbing skills.

So now I am ready for my lecture-writing and still ready for news from the source of my expectant mood these past few days.
On that note back to work

It has not stopped raining, drizzling or in general being wet, for the past twenty hours or so. I will not predict the final demise of the sunny weather and the advent of the empire of gloom, yet I will say that the weather can put you in mood. I guess, however, that at this stage it is just a mood for work. You can't be too distracted with this grey veil outside (I write as I am distracting myself with this writing). So here I am at home writing my lecture on Justinian and having some good quality time with the self. Yes I would love to have company yet I can do without it right now. I think I will put another two to three hours and then simply read someting different. Need to put some more classical music and continue.

Was a very good day. I spent 3:30 hours at the rock-climbing venue and did a 5.8 climb (make that two) straight up without "resting" on the ropes and any falls. It was the most exhilerating feeling. It has been a while since I felt this. I know I will continue with the walls, the ropes, the ATC and the stiff upward-looking neck. Most interesting element in this experience is the degree to which it brings me face to face with a need to go just beyond what appears possible in my highly-realist, conservative sense of the physicaly feasible. It does not always happen and I am still missing both technique and strength (mostly technique I am told), yet it is great. See, ultimately it is possible to produce an unpretentius blog posting. Just get yourself genuinly excited by something real, that is possible to share in a manner that does not become embarassing, and you have your text.

After the exercising part, I ended up with my climbing partner and mentor at a cajun-style little eatery on Commercial for pulled pork and beer. I was so happy to consume it though I have to admit that tiredness did not blunt my taste, and I can still say with absolute confidence that Sam's pulled pork was simply better. But of course Sam's everything (kitchen related) is better. I wonder: how is Sam doing? Note to self: write to friend.

How to produce an honest unpretentious posting? Take a pot, add hours of paper marking, tired eyes, some music for background and the prospect of a night spent without any human interaction. There you are, the ingredients for some serious soul-searching are there and only should you cook at the wrong temperature will you end up with the usual baroque crap.

Still at home. All day spent between Commercial drive and East Seventh. Only three papers left to correct, but no power left to be mustered for this process. I will do it tomorrow morning before I leave for rock-climbing and after I place my machinetta on the stove. Bought a book on 20th century totalitarianisms. I am not sure what compels me to buy more books that will probably remain unread as a result of my desperate need to socialize whenever I do not work. How will I reinforce my pseudo-intellectual profile if I do not read them, but how will I have an opportunity to exhibit this same profile to the world if I do not socialize? Is this too personal? Should I make sure this view into the life of a professor does not filter out in broader academia?

Spaghetti in the pot and sauce in the "potlet" are conspiring to provide a meal for me. Will probably go get a film once I eat. The book will have to wait. My eyes are to tired for the coordination required by reading. As for my brain, it is elsewhere anyhow.

I am not a writer, I said to the interrogator, and yet she expected a story. It had to be written, calligraphically recorded and delivered to her office by the 5th of November, or else. The record turned on the old gramophone, the little dog of “his master’s voice” getting dizzier by each song refrain, and I could not get it into the interrogator’s mind that I was not a writer. Of all interrogation rooms this was certainly the nicest I had ever visited. The threat of violence was couched in hues of civility and echoes of bourgeois politeness. It seemed a comfortable place to visit and for this it was more effective than the bare cement walls of the modernist prison. Even as I was transferred from my cell on block 4 of the state penitentiary’s fourth wing (out of 16 – they like multiples of 4 here) I knew that I was in for something far more persuasive than electroshocks and water-boarding. I was in for the whole “we are co-opting you in the bourgeois dream routine.” Men far stronger than me succumbed. And here I was, German Jazz piping through the old gramophone’s speaker, resisting her demands (for the interrogator was a woman, inevitably). Who did I think I was, I told myself. I needed to write a story and offer it to her before the dog puked from the frenetic dance on the turntable and before I was forever excluded from this bourgeois promise. What was there to hide after all? The fact that I desired this other woman, or maybe the fear that I could fall for her (this other woman)? Both questions loomed perilously over my head as I contemplated the possible narrative routes that my story could take. I knew it would not be too difficult to make the November 5th deadline. And then I could climb the wall to some sort of freedom.

Slightly buzzed I turn the key and enter my apartment. I connect the ipod to the stereo and I play Gianmaria Testa. I am in a groove and I start the first stage of my ceremonial strip-tease, the one that my students witness every time I enter the classroom. I remove, item after item from my pockets and leave everything in a relatively orderly fashion on the little white coffee table. I say relatively for I am buzzed. And then, looking for things to remove from my pockets, like a cigarette smoker looking for the orphan in his pack, I insert my hand in the right back pocket of my jeens and remove a card. As my hand feels for its paper and turns it to the scrutiny of my eyes I am in for a surprise. It is not my coffee-shop stamp card but something I do not recognise. It reads (in French): Caporal Beverly Peel: Commis au traitement. I am surprised. I really cannot see what the hell this female recruiter's card is doing in my pants. I know I am charming... but this person I do not know. It takes me a while to understand. In fact I have to post something on this blog to get the time to process what is going on. I am sure I have not hit on an army recruiters recently. So what is it? Well now I get it. It is my student who wanted me to have this card as a contact for a person whom I could ask if I had doubts about his excuse for not coming to class. I suddenly realize that the story is far less sexy than originally assumed. It is actually sad. My student seeks to belong to Canada through the army. My student is Chinese in origins. I still cannot get myself to like the army in any of its national permutations.

I rarely write from the office. I do not know why, maybe some sense that here we work. Maybe that here I am usually not bored. Yet why am I writing now? Well, I unearthed from my papers some pictures from the Ann Arbor era, and specifically one or two from my 32nd birthday at Monica's home. I looked so happy and young. H's presence explained the happiness part. Time explains the youth issue. Listening to The Cure while correcting, I am still struggling with one student's lack of ability to construct an argument. I hope I will make a difference, I will help people write better, and yet it feels like a nearly impossible task. Anyhow, back to this paper

I had some chickpea soup. It has been simmering for the past 5 hours (an ecological disaster in terms of energy consumption) in the oven. Yet the chickpeas were still kind of hard. Nothing like the Siphnian version of the same product, cooked in a clay pot in a wood oven for a whole night. Still it was an interesting attempt. I am seriously considering a walk to my local bar, computer in hand for some editing. I have been at home all day and I am getting restless. Not even my run relaxed me. So off I go to the land of the IPA.

And then it happens. Not when you expect it. Not while in contact, only later, when you process the experience and receive a message in the form of a promise. Anticipation mixes with reminiscence and together concoct a potent effect. Brain and stomach conspire to create an odd familiar and yet always surprising sensation. Now you know you are in some sort of trouble. Now you do not really care. Nice he?

I want to put forward a project for a new-type rehab clinnic. It is going to be a project addressed to alienated early thirties intellectuals, lost in the business, academic or whatever other world and wishing to shed the nasty habbits of daily routine. It is going to be funded by contributions begining at the very moment our parents display that special glint in their eye. Basically I am working for future generations of people like me. The goals of the clinic would be to offer crash-courses in re-juvenilization. We will shed our weary mid-thirties cynicism for an assumption of the much more unadulturated mid-teens cynicism that was so amazing in lifting us above everyone else and producing a sense of invincibility and possibility (I need to clarify here that I am not exactly sure I can remember ever feeling invincible but bear with me for the sake of the story). The course would take place in carefully selected locations where hot weather, water and comfortable, stylish housing, will allow us to reconvene with all those friends who defined our being about half a generation ago. Friends who are now, half a generation later, lost in distance and worlds of labor. We shall sit, talk bullshit, philosophize and look lustfully after women trying to experience the same feeling of desire and desperation that we left behind as we slowly turned into lower middle age types feeling the need to rock-climb in order to convince the world of our continuing vitality. Oh and we will have to listen to Chris Rea's on the beach, share information on the latest music downloaded and discuss our achievements with an air of ironic self-deprecation.

My neighbor on my left hand side (me looking North) is an old Chinese woman. She lives in a house by herself. The house itself is not in very good shape though at least her lawn is properly watered almost everyday. In any case the old lady with her long grey hair is a model "independent dialoguer." She stand on her porch, cheing on a piece of apple and talks, she walks and talks, she cleans her backyard and talks. And on each one of those occasions she has no interlocutor. And yet the talk is continuous, a stream of thoughts and ideas, all in chinese, which seems to be unaffected by her environment. Moreover, there is a change of coloration in her speach that at times confuses me as it makes me feel she is indeed addressing someone. This woman is engaged in a dialogue with another, invisible, man/woman. A dead husband, a sister still stuck in China or something. Someone she misses maybe. Then again it maybe that she replays all those lost opportunities for standing up to someone and giving them the hell they deserve, the dress down their horrid behavior so deservedly won. Maybe it is anger she is chaneling to the world. In any case she is an odd spectacle. And I am in my house, taking a break from my lecture-writing wishing to find an opportunity to take a picture of her without being seen. Maybe if she notices I will become one of her future interlocutors. The long haired barbarian who insolently tried to steal her image. I went to capture her image and only her voice was left as she had moved into her kitchen. Hence the empty porch... you hear he chatter?

Last night I was sitting at the table of the local bar, the “somniferous,” located at the corner of consciousness and sleep, a series of thoughts and images rushing through my brain. I make a distinction between thoughts and images, because thoughts may also be images, yet they are of the processed variation, with mat gloss and serial numbers on their back. Images are images, they have an independent existence and jump out like spewing lava from the creative mess of my subconscious. It is fun sitting at the “somniferous” with its little round tables decorated by a bricolage of multicolored flat stone, like the opus sectile on the floor of the basilica of Junius Bassus. As I sip on my aperitif I notice that strange combinations of consciousness and images is concocted in my head. I think of auburn hair, of friends and walks and then the image, in black and white, of an old truck (from a silent movie almost) descends before me.

The truck is lowered on a system of pulleys. Damn, how do I go from dating to trucks? I mean I can explain everything but for the truck. I guess the pulleys are a direct reference to rock-climbing. Oh, I just got it, the truck is me. I am in black and white to indicate I am old and I descend slowly and safely because I am being held safely in mid air. But why a truck? Why should I come in the form of a truck? I will ruminate over this for a while as I now have lifted myself from the comfy chairs of the “somniferous” and prepare to read my student’s equally somniferous papers.

Well I should be in bed, yet I wanted to honor this structure of the Vancouver skyline for being good to me tonight. Nothing more, nothing less. Other than that, a good film, great company, a nice walk, and a day of work tomorrow. I will not in any way complain. Something inspired maybe posted here today (today is the new tomorrow).

Rock-climbing rock-star. I only miss a whiskey on the rocks to make things perfect. But then again it will make me feel I am turning alcoholic, so let me leave it where it is. I was climbing walls today (another interesting use of words...) with two friends - I often contemplate on the propriety of reference to people's real names on a blog. It was my first time next to a natural talent's second time and an experienced zen-climber's Nth. It is quite challenging and it is one of the few things where I see myself rising from my non-A type male slouch posture and truly become competitive. I cannot say I am good at it. Who knows what I am. It was, however, a good way to interact with friends and test this body's limits. And the body speaks to you. Oh yes, it explains a few things you never thought would ever be uttered. Now I know:

i. My left arms is significantly weaker than my right arm (is it the car accident 23 years ago? Who knows).
ii. I am not that afraid of heights. Once I know that I am tied and, come what may, someone is holding me, I will go up.
iii. I am risking developing a fetish for climbing equipment and a liking for chicks in climbing gear.
iv. I like being able to afford more expensive hobbies.
v. My sweaty hands are a problem. It takes too much energy to keep them dry with chalk (that is not an excuse for my failures).
vi. I want to do it again.
vii. I am not a rock-star (Rory Gallagher on the stereo was one).

Let me use my weary hand to correct a paper before I go to the movies. I do not even remember what I will see. I know who my companion will be though, at least that is something. Boy, I feel tired.

This is my claim to fame. Anyhow, not too much more about that. I have just returned from a run. Same short distance, faster pace. It will take long to build a respectable stamina and I wonder if before that the impact of running on my knees and shins will not put an end to my aspirations. In any case it was enjoyable. Meawhile, I have been correcting student papers. The results to this point are an odd combination of the off cue with the truly smart. Happily for the curve, the truly smart seems to be rare. As for the off cue, it even comes from unexpected quarters. From students I expected to do well. Anyways, I guess all this will allow me to calibrate my teaching and my advice to them. Now I have a better sense of what goes through and what does not. Shower to follow and papers to be taken to the bar. Off for now, as the issues I would truly like to discuss are not material for this forum. BTW, the term forum itself is I think problematic as I am not sure anyone reads what I write.

What to report of a day that was spent at home and then at a lecture hall watching a discusion between film directors? To begin with maybe say that I am glad I stayed home today. Last night's drinking at the consul's and later at the restaurant had taken a toll. Everything had to be in slow motion today. Tomorrow there is more teaching and then students' papers to be collected. Then the weekend follows with all the social interactions and riddles that come with it. Today I did something I had never done before. I talked to my mother on the phone and told her I am proud of her. It is one of those things that you do not normally tell to your parents. On some occasions they may know, this is true. My dad for example knows. My mother, however, I feel is too unsure on her feet to believe it is possible. And yet this small, spunky, super-emotional, no shit woman deserves every accolade. I guess meeting Gavras and thinking about her trip to Paris to see 'Z' made me reach the tipping point. Yes I ultimately I admire her for her stubborn desire to stick it to forces far superior than her. Not as an ideologue, but as someone peeved with the experience of injustice. I am not sure I would have dared do the same, though I hope I would.

A rule should be set and I should abide by it. When you do not have a clear idea what you want to put down in this blog, don't log in. In moments like this one this rule sounds eminently reasonable. What do I have to say or report? Well, ...there is something, and the fact that this is true makes this rule potentially stifling. It is tiny and yet humongous. It is about the value of recognition and the source of recognition. I just recently realized that there is a recognition food chain in my mind. High on the food chain are people whose minds I respect. Lower, but equally hi are relatives whose nod of approval satisfies more coplex psychological needs that are most probably linked to childhood experiences. Then at the peak, I found out today, is one person. I had a chat with him today and among other things, sober, ironic, funny, and simply factual he mentioned that he had been using a little thing I wrote recently. He liked it and shared it. There was a moment of approval, casual and simple that was worth all the money. My response to that, not to him, but to the comment itself was a revelation to me. I will leave this here. I am in anycase happy I logged on. BTW, speaking of approval I should address a certain inhabitant of the greater Denver area, and say that this blog has to offer cheers for a happy choice of piercing. This blog and its writer approves. This blog will not however, post a picture to share this approval with others. It would simply be odd, you have to contend yourself with the honorable mention.

Over and out for tonight.

How can you make Gnosticism and Neoplatonism relevant to a modern audience? That was the thought going through the bewildered man's mind as he sat on his study seat typing sequences of words on his keypad. He could be writing code, programming the mechanical arm of a intergalactic spaceship; training the robtic devide to carefully tiptoe on the fragments of meteorites while mining for precious metals, and still the sequence of 0s and 1s beautifully coming together to create this robotic choreography would appear more entertaining and relevant to the vast majority of sentient human beings, than what he was putting down as lecture notes. He contemplated another break. He contemplated leaving things as they are, filling the remaing three pages of dense writing for the following day. He struggled with guilt. He was concerned that his work ethic was collapsing and he still has not made a decision.

A break. A long one. For the first time in months I went for a run. It was as much a test of basic aerobic (lack of) stamina as it was an exploration of my neighborhood. I must say that the running opportunities in Ann Arbor in the two areas where I used to live were better. Greater variety of suburban scenery and more twists and turns. Here it is slightly more urban and more on the rectangular city block style of road system. In anycase, I was happy to complete what was a short run that left me panting but happy with my new shoes. Really good support and shock-absorption. After this experience I simply sat down to reclaim my breath, prepared a simple dinner and started reading the news. Odd to be in Canada and follow the succession contest in the French socialist party. I must be deluded like the French in believing it matters what happens in France. In any case the debate is interesting. Only the French would be quoting Bourdieu in an analysis of party politics. Listening to Anouar Brahem on the side is itself a trip to another continent. The sipping of cocoa is just a feel good technique. Soon, I should start working on my second lecture. Do place the following bets for me:

1. Will I finish my lecture by 12AM today
2. Will I go for a run tomorrow morning

I am betting against myself, but then again I may want to prove me wrong.