Home is Where the Heart Attack Starts

One trek through downtown Toronto, one bus ride, one longish airport wait (made shorter by the higher alcohol content of Molson Canadian!), and two quite pleasant flights (see above), and I found myself back in SoCal, where it was a steamy 75 degrees at 10 pm. Today’s high of 95 made it quite clear that I wasn’t in the Great White North anymore. Which, my own enormous wonderful bed aside, was not altogether a good thing.

I spent most of today sorting through the developing crises surrounding weekend after next’s Media Studies conference. All appears to be under control, but only after a full ten hours of non-stop palpitations and breathless sweating of details.

If I ever mention that I’m organizing another conference, would someone… send me a really stern e-mail, or something.

The bottom line of all this racing-heart business is, alas, that I’ve done, seen, read, thought, said, or experienced absolutely Nothing interesting enough to bother writing here today. Either that, or I haven’t been able to sit still long enough to get interested in any of same. Here’s hoping for more, better, soon.

7 thoughts on “Home is Where the Heart Attack Starts

  1. KF

    I’m sure that the now almost-signature oh-this-just-a-little-boring entry line is designed to illicit closer reading. I reread the short entry and tried to understand where the heart attack might stop 🙂

    The heart-racing lead me to reflect upon John Donne and conduct a WWW search which revealed that Benjamin Britten had set to music the lyrics of the Holy Sonnets including “Batter my heart”

    http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/sonnet14.htm [with a repro of a painting by Cranach depicting the trinity]

    And to an essay by Paul Saffo http://www.saffo.com/roadfromtrinity.html

    quote>”Funny how the mountains always inspire our work,” Robert Oppenheimer is said to have remarked to a toiling colleague while looking up at the Oscuras from Ground Zero during a rare break in the race to rig the Trinity device.

    The MPs added to the farce by bringing up a HumVee-mounted fire-pumper to wash off the monument, even though the liquid thrown by the protester had promptly evaporated into the dry desert air. The result was a media circus of the absurd: a poor sergeant under orders dutifully hosing off an invisible fluid as the erstwhile hippies chanted, “You can never wash it off.”

  2. Hi, Jason — thanks for the good wishes. They’re much needed. AoIR left me exhausted and pining a bit for my own space, but having returned, I’m wishing I were back in Toronto, conferencing instead of administrivializing.

    And Francois — I have to say — you have the most interesting thought-patterns of anyone I’ve read. If my brain were equipped to make the kinds of connections that yours seems to produce so effortlessly, I’d have no need of those “nothing to post” posts. It’s lovely to have you as a reader, such that you can find meaning in all my emptiest drivel.

    By the by, we were half expecting to run into you at AoIR…

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