The following is a documentation of correspondence between myself and my good friend Iqbal, who is currently out of the country. To begin at the beginning is advisable, but unnecessary, as the nature of our conversation is, by all accounts, deeply universal and fundamentally relatable.

Monday, March 30, 2009

angel's share n. (informal)- the quantity of alcoholic liquid lost to evaporation during the distillation process

Dearest Iqbal-

Oh my mind is clouded and my eyes are dim. To say I imbibed would be both an under- and overstatement. Under because I scarcely remember it so my attestation is an afterthought, a palimpsest, to what was, and over- because I can scarcely think of anything. The evidence is in massed on the hill, in a defensive formation, entrenched, looking down their artillery barrels at me. Their fortifications are so dense and impregnable that it matters not what's on the other side; I will not see it.

I crossed through the demilitarized zone late saturday evening for a jaunt through the past. All those poetic short stories remind you that the enemy looks just like you (or your brother), so I figured why wait 'til I'm dead to find that out. I rightly assumed that my disguise would be perfect because it's no disguise at all. My face hid my identity flawlessly, and my brothers too.

The target, preordained from the beginning, was the Kingdom, or more specifically, Angela. She is motherly, with an aww shucks grin and bangs you can set your watch by. She seemed to remember me from the brief cessation of hostilities that had come to a bloody close just hours before with a disturbing case of fratricide. She probably knew I didn't belong, but I knew the same about her so she had no barrel over my head that I didn't have over hers, but to remind her of that fact I made sure to order the Balvenie 12 year old Double Barrel (with a splash of water). She got the message and I got the Scotch.

The night progressed smoothly; the culture shock was less than expected. This was however a distinctly double edged sword. I was counting on my exoticism as currency to buy me into conversations. From there the rest would be history. But I barely stood out at all and needed to affect an accent to get noticed (li-tra-ture, say it with me). 

After several failed attempts at conversation with strangers, all rebuffed, I returned to the bar and ordered another Balvenie. Angela smiled, and I beckoned her in. Close enough to see in the darkness that her eyes were in fact blue.   

"Four times I've been rejected tonight." She smiled. "I'm usually marginally more successful than that."

She poured the Scotch and leaned in closer. I could smell her sweat. In a voice as devoid of sing-song expression as one can bring to it she said, "How should we like it if the stars were to burn with a passion for us that we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me."

I laughed. Who does that? She pulled away to return the bottle to it's resting place. I could only smell the Scotch. She shrugged her shoulders. "Persistence is key."

I slipped back across the border not long before dawn, avoiding checkpoint and sentry and nursed myself to sleep.

-Robert de Saint-Loup


Wednesday, March 25, 2009

lost book found

Dearest Iqbal-

I awoke this morning to find a suspicious package sitting outside my stoop addressed to yours truly.  I investigated it: sent via the post with no return address.  I immediately suspected that it was from you! That you had finally found some time to respond to my letters and had sent me a souvenir or two, a shrunken head or maybe a taste of your manuscript. I dashed up the stairs and proceeded to eviscerate the package. 

From the package emerged something I'd lost a long time ago and assumed that I'd never see again: a volume of my journal.  I lost it somewhere in Grand Central Station a number of years ago.  I had been writing in it for about 3 months, roughly half of it was filled. I opened it slowly. Inside was a note. In an awkward, angular, childish hand was written: "Here, you need this more than me."

I turned the note over and flipped through the pages of the book. There was nothing else, not a clue. I brought the spin to my nose and inhaled slowly. There was a dry, bitter taste, and the slight aroma of cigar smoke. 

Had the finder become a reader? I had to assume so. His statement, while cryptic, was clearly meaningful. What did my reader think of me? Well, certainly not too highly. Apparently I "need" the journal back. I was getting on just fine without it, thank you very much. But it set me to wondering what my journal sounds like with just the words, not the memories. I tried an experiment: I typed up a few pages of my journal in the hopes that seeing them in a measured, uniform font on a screen and not in my own hand, mingled with memories, would lead me to some objectivity.

Here's an example:

"At work today I wrote the letter to Miss Weaver. The only thing left to do is send it.  Will I have the nerve? I imagine her response will be quite positive-- I imagine her keeping the letter for the rest of her life, never discarding it. Quite sanctimonious of me. 

Writing the letter was stressful. I wanted it in my own hand, not typed or emailed, but I also needed it to be legible and relatively attractive. As it should be. I think it's okay now. Not great, but readable enough that it seems heartfelt. Writing so carefully, maintaining steady breath, while at the same time making slight editorial changes. I'm glad I type for the most part, as awful as it sounds I'm much  more confident. 

The only hesitance I have in sending the letter is that it will probably make her respond and that response will undoubtedly disappoint. The whole charm of the letter is that I make this object, this physical real object, and seal it up and send it away, safe in the confidence that soon that physical object will be with Ms. Weaver. And that will be our only contact. Physical but broken in regards to time. It leaves everything to the imagination. I get to imagine her response. I want to leave it there. Maybe that's why I want her to keep it forever. So when I'm dead and she's dead her kids will find it and the sentiment will be born with them, but without the weight of a specific interaction."

I think I'd fine me narcissistic, sensitive, painfully self aware and too worried about what will happen. I spend time thinking about who will know what when, and if the reality of an actual interaction (which by the way, did end up happening-- I sent that letter) will destroy the idealized image in my head. Maybe that's why this guy sent me back my journal, to pull me into the past, force me to look backwards instead of forward.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

everyday

Dearest Iqbal-

Last night I was accosted in my bed by a homeopath brandishing pamphlets. I was quite taken aback at first; how did the homeopath get in? Why did she choose me to impart her wisdom upon? Didn't she know I wanted to sleep? 

The first pamphlet was chock full of testimonials from everyday people about the incredible healing power of the placebo effect. Apparently they took no virtually no medication, focused inwardly on healing themselves, and voila they felt better. Incredible. I pointed out to her that magically healing is considered miraculous. After all it didn't go unnoticed when certain messiahs have done it. She shrugged it off suggesting that the technology of healing has evolved so much over the past two thousand years that what was once a miracle is now quite everyday.

The second pamphlet explained that in fact most mental disorders occur when the "brain functions are different energetic frequencies than the so-called normal brain." Like an everyday brain? What confused me (and the homeopath) quite a bit was the relationship between energy and frequency. I had no idea they were directly related. I understood thanks to Dr. McGee's physics symposium that for a wave (the only thing that has frequency) E=A^2, or energy equals the the amplitude squared.  No mention of frequency at all! How could this be?! 

I proceeded to whip out my physics text book that I keep handy in case I ever need to play sports. Apparently there is no direct relationship between energy and frequency, only an indirect one (the relationship between frequency and amplitude is mitigated by a constant defined by the substance the wave is traveling through; in this case, my brain). By this time the homeopath had moved on to other topics: the war on homeopathy (occasionally referred to in the mainstream media as the "war on terror"), the conspiracy in which doctors keep people sick so they can pocket the co-pay, and the role that fried food plays in pagan festivals. 

The third and final pamphlet was a chinese restaurant menu. I ordered some orange flavored chicken. 

-Robert de Saint Loup

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Pseudepigrapha

Dearest Iqbal-

Hail fellow well met!

I received today via the post the quarterly update from the OED3!  Thrilling. But then I opened it up and began to tremble. Oh, the changes. Not only are they re-writing every definition from scratch, but they aren't even starting with the letter A! They began with M and are now up to R.  Every school child in the nation will have to unlearn and then relearn that damn melody.  Think how this will effect you: your last name used to be at the fore of the alphabet. Now it glumly resides right in the middle, between Z and B. Did the OEDers consult anyone? This must be an affront to someone.

But think!  Starting at "M" and following consecutively... M, N, O, P...Y, Z, A, B...  They've only re-defined "M" through "reamy." That's not even a quarter of the letters.  What of the rest?  Every other word is trapped in the past waiting to be re-admitted in to our lexicon, sitting in an antiquated waiting room, twiddling it's serifs, wondering if it will be invited back into our mouths. Like a snake stuck in mid-molt, it's skin not off but certainly not of, we have two languages. 

"each to the other calls
Not understood, til hoarse, and all in rage
As mockt they storm; great laughter was in Heav'n
And looking down, to see the hubbub strange
And hear the din; thus was the building left
Ridiculous"

Ridiculous!  

Speaking of language barriers, I was thinking back to that time that you and I saw The Lion King on Broadway. Oh, what a time that was. Even though you claimed to be bored by it (mindless infantilization is the term you threw around) I could tell you were right there with the lions and monkeys and all.  I can't wait to be king, either. I think those sorts of cultural exchanges are really worth while. Not all of us can be diehard cultural anthropologists like you and go stomping around without checking your e-mail in some foreign country. We unlucky have to go to broadway in order to get get a glimpse of African culture and history, and it doesn't hurt that it's in a bite-sized portion. When you come back we should definitely see another. Maybe Shrek The Musical?  It's getting dynamite reviews.


-Robert de Saint-Loup

Monday, March 23, 2009

Diptych

Dearest Iqbal-

I was walking south on Elizabeth St, at about 7AM this morning, into the wind, and I saw walking the other way a woman about my own age, with a scarf covering mouth and nose but her eyes revealed.  I instantly recognized her.  

We had gone to Middle School together before I had moved.  She was my first real crush. Her locker was across the hall from mine-- I was 305, she was 304, the numbers alternating back and fourth down the hall-- and I'd see her everyday.  Some days I'd smile, some days I tried to look worried or busy, others I avoided eye contact to make sure she knew I had other things on my mind besides her.

I noticed that she walked home from school every day.  I did not. (Iqbal if I've told you this story before feel free to discard this letter).  I lived many miles from the school.  But one day I decided to be bold and offered to walk her home.

"Oh you live over in Masonville?"

"Yeah.  Your house is right on the way to mine.  You live on Begonia Lane, right?"

"Yeah.  Yeah, sure let's walk home."

Her name was Jillian, and we shared a really pleasant walk, never having to grope too hard for things to say.  

I took her to her mailbox, said a curt goodbye, and proceeded to walk 6 miles home arriving long after the sun had set.  

The next day I stood at my locker, facing my oversized brown coat which flowed ungracefully out of it.  The hairs on the back of my neck told me she had walked up.  Our backs were friendlily facing each other.   I held my breathe: I didn't want her to think that what happened yesterday was a big deal.  I didn't say hello or even look over at her.  She walked away.  I fled in the other direction, only to realize I'd left my locker open.  I was late for class.

Days went by.  I would occasionally wave to her or smile at her from across the gymnasium.  I looked for her everywhere and often found her.   Finally a warm weather day came.  Jillian was wearing a black cashmere (or so it seemed) turtleneck sweater.  I turned around from my locker and waved at her.  She smiled and waved back.  The late bell rang and I dashed off for class (this time remembering to slam shut 304).  

I decided that with the weather so pleasant, the friendly wave I had received, and Jillian looking so sweet today it was a perfect day to walk her home again.  My nerves were on edge but I was confident.  

The day drawing to a close, I walked to my locker.  Ahead of me I saw her outline and the black turtleneck sweater.  She turned her head to profile, then looked back, and smiled at me.

My lips formed the name. "Heather."  That was Heather.  She went to her locker.  306. 

I turned away quickly.  My heart raced.  Jillian and Heather.  They looked almost identical, and their lockers were next to one another.  I had walked home Jillian, and then been smiling at Heather.  For how long?  I turned to run, but the weather had turned bad and I wanted my coat.
  
Approaching my locker I saw the two girls.  One in a black turtleneck, the other in a purple A-line dress.  They looked nothing at all alike.

Since then, in my memory they've begun to look the same again.  I frankly don't know which one of the two I passed this morning.  

-Robert de Saint-Loup


Saturday, March 21, 2009

outdate

Dearest Iqbal-

As I cryptically mentioned in my previous correspondence I have fled the Islay, following the path of General Washington's Continental Army north, up the Hudson River Valley and have bivouacked in a position of relative safety while I can wait for the AIG controversy to blow over. But just so you don't worry, unlike General Washington's army, I am remarkably well fed.

Up here in the provinces (hat tip) there's a lot of light and space and remarkably little for that light to shine on or stuff to fill the space. Might be do for some anthropological cavity searches, eh Doctor?

Oh, I forgot to tell you! I have received an official invitation to join the Brotherhood of Masons. Exciting! I'm sure you know all about the Brotherhood and their secret rituals and funny getups. I think in today's modern and secular society something as absurd and outdated as the Brotherhood is a tad refreshing. The only requirements for admission are you be a man (yes), free-born (was indeed), and believe in a higher power (but of course). The way I figure it'll be a great way to meet some new faces. And the motto, I love the motto: "It's our world, they're just living in it." Sometimes that's how I feel about you and me.

Speaking of outdated esoterica, that reminds me, my sister Lucia has decided to go to Clairvoyancy school. It started with a pseudo-religious experience she had on the subway in Baltimore wherein a woman across the car came bounding up and insisted that she knew my sister 'in a previous life.' Lucia got scared, lashed out at the woman with her over-sized purse and departed the train at the next stop. She wandered the streets of Baltimore for several hours before drifting into an academy for clairvoyants to avoid the gang related violence in the street. It was a sign! She signed up right away, putting a huge down payment on her tuition. A little facebook research later that night revealed that the person she'd known 'in a previous life' had dormed across the hall from her one semester at SUNY Geneseo. But with the down-payment already cleared out of her bank account and few other prospects, she has decided to give the Clairvoyancy thing a real (post) college try.

They started by asking her easy questions, like "Using all your faculties of Supposition and Intuition, tell me what color my hair is." Lucia aced all of those questions, leading her to think she might actually be quite good at this. She's been stumbling a bit on looking through doors and guessing people's names when their "Hi, I'm _____" stickers are obscured, but she's sticking with it. As you always say, practice makes perfect. You should write her sometimes. No doubt she'd love to hear from you.



-Robert de Saint-Loup






Friday, March 20, 2009

Portraiture

Dearest Iqbal-

Spring has sprung, and another season comes without me having heard any definitive news of how your research is going.  Along with this comes a parallel irony: for the first time in weeks it is snowing in New York. 

With each passing day I assume your opus grows and becomes more multiform and magnificent.  After all, every day you are blessed with 18 hours of waking experience 'in country' as they say.  That must equal at least a page or two of prose per diem.  You aren't like Virgil, only writing 3 lines a day; no, I think when you get home you'll need several surplus suitcases to fill with your easily thousands of pages of single typed manuscript.

An idea: instead of just writing about Zanzibar and letting your opus speak of a single, independent place only in the context of itself, you should walk home (of course taking a boat/plane to cross water masses), and as you travel home you keep writing your social anthropology so that the reader not only gets to know Zanzibar as an island but it's relationship with other places.  Anyone can describe a place, but any place is next to another place, which is next to another place, which ultimately is where I am.  To imagine the slow, barely perceptible gradations, the gentlest differentiation of customs, of handshakes, of smiles, of sex, to feel the change in language not between Swahili and Afrikaans and Chewa, but between Swahili at this longitude and Swahili at that longitude, now that is something! Give it a thought, Iqbal!

Speaking of social anthropology, I'm currently reading Mary Ann Evans (who was actually a man).  It's a pretty good, spacious, democratic 19th century novel.  It's funny because the narrator is always pointing out hypocrisies and ironies and the many foibles of her characters, and it's quite funny, but the characters never seem to notice just how funny they are.  It's like a fish not knowing what water is: they are so subsumed by irony and gentle absurdity that they can't even see it.  Luckily we aren't like that!

-Robert de Saint-Loup

P.S.  Enclosed is a re-production of a painting of Mary Ann Evans in rather unconvincing drag.


Thursday, March 19, 2009

Dearest Iqbal-

Apparently the high in Zanzibar will be 90 degrees fahrenheit today.  Sounds lovely.  In the new world it's been drizzling all day.  Rain can be nice as long as you don't have to fight against it, as long as you are sedentary and in league with the vague depression it demands.  Of course, by depression I mean no connotation of sadness, only lethargy and maybe a down-comforted anhedonia.  But I am at work, and have to abandon the islay tonight (if only briefly).  

How do you find the women in Zanzibar?  I understand that you're there for research which is an inherently impersonal enterprise, but you too are a man.  Do you feel an alienation from the people because you are there to study them?  I imagine when you go out socially and you tell them that your relationship with their culture is objective study it must put a damper on conversation.  That which they are so steeped in they are unaware of, you are chewing on.  Are you always looking for clues in your social outings?  Little hints or subtleties of interaction that while not being directly applicable to your grand work may elucidate, indirectly, some more concrete element?

I suppose cross cultural (even academic) dating is no more alienating than the objectification and analysis that goes on within a culture.

But at the same time there's the advantage of geography!  Romances that occur on extended trips are always the most intense because you know it won't be long until you have to say adieu and that pre-ordained pain guarantees suffering, and suffering is a synonym of Passion.  Maybe you should even look for someone on the far side of a language barrier.  Just think, you'll always have Zanzibar....

I eagerly away your reply.


-Robert de Saint-Loup

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Dearest Iqbal-

Something needs to be addressed from the previous letter I wrote. 

Luke quotes Christ as saying "Are not five sparros sold for two pennies?"  Suggesting that 2.5 sparrows can be had for a penny.  That's absurd!  Is Luke suggesting that Christ thought you could buy half a sparrow?  Sparrows are chosen in this anecdote because they are small and essentially indivisible.  

And then Matthew further complicates things: "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?"  I don't know, you tell me!  If they are, then the price of 2 sparrows is one penny, which is not the same price that Luke quotes.  Now if they can't keep the price of sparrows straight, maybe they're wrong about other stuff?  Maybe Matthew meant that Christ said: "Some of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your father" or Luke: "God lost count of the hairs on your head."  

Now you're an intellectual; please help!

-Robert de Saint-Loup


Argumentum

Dearest Iqbal-

Every time I get back the automated response from you I re-read it, searching through those uniform and consistent sentences for a tone, a double meaning, a hint that I may have missed in the past or that has evolved over the time you have spent out of country.

Think of the changes that will have become manifest since you were last here.  Nothing has truly changed.  My middle name is still the same, and the color of the sun is pretty consistent, and 4 is still NBC, but changes that have been occurring over our lifetimes have become distinctly manifest, and that is usually the moment that matters.

In this sense we miss the boat.  We mistake a hundred million grains of sand for a dune.  Is it better to say 'that's a dune' or to say 'I cannot even fathom what it is'?  It reminds me of Borges' 'Argumentum  Ornithologicum':

I close my eyes and see a flock of birds.  The vision lasts a second, or perhaps less; I am not sure how many birds I saw.  Was the number of birds definite or indefinite?  The problem involves the existence of God.  If God exists, the number is definite, because God knows how many birds I saw.  If God does not exist, the number is indefinite, because no one can have counted.  In this case I saw fewer than ten birds (let us say) and more than one but did not see nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, or two birds.  I saw a number between ten and one, which was not nine, eight, seven, six, five, etc.  That integer-- not-nine, not-eight, not-seven, not-six, not-five, etc-- is inconceivable.  Ergo, God Exists.


Now of course there is a slight glibness to Borges (detectable in the the title and the unecessary "ergo").  Speaking from experience I can tell you that librarians (even blind ones) have a sense of humor.  But isn't he quite right? 

It reminds me of The Gospel According to Luke, Chapter 12.  Luke quotes Christ as saying: "Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one them is forgotten by God.  Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered."  (Conveniently mirrored in Matthew 10:22: "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?  Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father").  

Those two quotes go hand-in-hand with the Borges piece, no?  Birds are an ideal vehicle for ontological discussion.  First: they often travel in flocks, which happily blur the line between independent creatures (each of which is numbered) and a collective identity being guided by a divine or all-powerful force.  Second: they fly!  Nothing reminds us of the rules we must follow than seeing them broken ('I am tied to the earth like a silent slave').  In fact, I'd say that we can't recognize something as a rule unless we see it broken.  No? 

Hope all is well!

-Robert de Saint Loup


Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Iqbal!

It's been too long. My pencil broke, snapped right in half, so I couldn't write rough drafts that I would later type into an email for you.  

Last night I had a dream about a black rabbit.  It was super friendly, came right over, was social, and ate watermelon out of my hand.  Isn't that odd?  Rabbits are generally not very social, nor are they known for liking watermelon.

Last night I was walking home from seeing a movie (The Reader--- nahhhh).  I was on the phone and was standing on a street corner waiting for a light to change.  Next to me was a cute girl in a beret.  I smiled at her.  She smiled back.  We both looked away.  Then we both looked back and smiled again. I knew what I had to do.  

I hung up the phone and said 'hi.'  We chatted for a second in the street, then I asked her for coffee, right then. She looked at her watch and said 'why not?'  Coffee was lovely, we exchanged numbers, I saw her to the train and was quite happy with myself.  I should so this more often, just being outgoing and social.*

I might enclose a poem I wrote in the next letter I send.  I hope to get a response from you soon!

-Robert de Saint Loup

*Everything in the second paragraph of that story didn't happen.