In Media Res
I know I have been largely absent from this particular corner of the Internet universe. It turns out that 10-month-olds remain unimpressed when their fathers hunch before the glow of a monitor clacking away at all those tiny buttons with squiggles. Well, that’s one excuse, at any rate.
The other is that we Tragoses are in a moment of transition, holing up in the Rockies of Colorado, preparing for our next venture (about which more in a near future post). Fear not (or fear): I’ve been checking in whenever possible to follow your posts. Oh the time I used to be able to afford.
It’s been almost two months since we left Turkey, and I miss it. Quite a lot, in fact. Back in America, I’ve been asked the question, “What, specifically, do you miss about the country?” I could list the facts: the food, the cities, the music, the variety, the Mediterranean, the Black Sea, the life. All necessary, but vastly insufficient.
I kept wondering: what would be sufficient? What would make me feel as if I communicated something real about what I feel when I think about Turkey.
On our second-to-last night in Ankara, some of our best friends in Turkey took us out for a night on the town: food and drink and wandering. Before we left them for the (hopefully not…surely not) last time, two of our friends sang us this utterly beautiful classical Turkish song. This is sufficient. It answers the question.
Early morning on Friday, we leave for a new country, a new job, and a new adventure. Today is the third anniversary of my first post on Tumblr, and despite all my recent negligence, I wanted to get this out there.
Cheers to you all.
Happy 11 Months on the planet, Baby Tragos.
(She and I, on a street in Colorado.)
“I have known many poets here who have written well—very fine stuff—with delicate moods and so on—but if you talk with them, the only thing they tell you is smutty stories or they speak of politics in the way that everybody does, so that really their writing turns out to be kind of sideshow. They had learned writing in the way that a man might learn to play chess or to play bridge. They were not really poets or writers at all. It was a trick they had learned, and they had learned it thoroughly. They had the whole thing at their finger ends. But most of them—except four or five, I should say—seemed to think of life as having nothing poetic or mysterious about it. They take things for granted. They know that when they have to write, then, well, they have to suddenly become rather sad or ironic.”
Jorge Luis Borges, from an interview of July 1966, The Paris Review. (via barretta)
Borges on poser poets.
(…) Encouraged by the internal logic of the school — where the outside world disappears, while grades overdevelop the sense of the slightest age difference — youth looks now for its meaning within itself: gravitating further and further away from adult age, and more and more toward adolescence,…
Very worth a read in its entirety, this post detailing the ways in which the anti-Bildungsroman, the dramatization of regression to childhood, represents the move from the individual as individual to the individual as member of the masses.
In taking Franco Moretti’s thesis (one I only understand from this single quotation here) to heart, I can’t help wondering: what would this last decade’s obsession with Boy-Men (viz. Judd Apatow’s movies and influence) mean in terms of politics? After all, the Boy-Man is basically an anti-Bildungsroman with a perfunctory and only slightly credible Bildungsroman twist at the end.
Is the belief in maturity on the cheap the ultimate form of narcissism? Give me maturity and wisdom, but not yet?
Tragos would like to interrupt the madness of his early summer to tell you he will be back soon.
Gwenaëlle Aubry, No One. I think this is already going to be one of favorite books. (via winesburgohio)
“I’ve had a father. That father was neither a hero — though all his life he fought the shadow within him — nor an ordinary man. But he has bequeathed to me a heroic world, an infinite, labile, opaque, and teeming world, full of pitfalls and side-lines, hard shoulders and vanishing points — monsters too, and more or less amenable ghosts — and, with this world, the desire to walk through and describe it.”
You had me at these exact words.