End of term festivities II


in Daily updates

Stories untold

Between finishing more than half of the qualitative methods test today and attending two interesting bops tonight, this has been a day well spent. The New College event tonight took place not in their MCR, but in an elegant sort of attic-like structure upstairs, with bare rafters and illumination from Christmas tree lights spread along the walls.

After that, a circuitous route brought us briefly to St. Antony’s College. There, I saw Emily in the process of leaving for Morocco before we scaled the wall (St. Antony’s simply will not let you out at night) and went to respective homes.

The day has certainly been indicative of the manner in which Oxford students mark the conclusion of terms. Mine won’t really be over until this take-home exam is submitted and another pair of supervisions take place, but I can still appreciate the spirit.

{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }

B March 13, 2006 at 2:14 pm

The image of you climbing the wall of an Oxford college to leave a party is highly amusing.

Anonymous March 13, 2006 at 7:54 pm

Your love is some dust in an old man’s cup who is tapping his foot to a tune.

B April 11, 2006 at 11:26 pm

I Have Not Lingered in European Monasteries:
Leonard Cohen

I have not lingered in European monasteries
and discovered among the tall grasses tombs of kings
who fell as beautifully as their ballads tell;
I have not parted the grasses
or purposefully left them thatched.

I have not released my mind to wander and wait
in those great distances
between the snowy mountains and the fisherman,
like a moon,
or a shell beneath the moving water.

I have not held my breath
so that I might hear the breathing of God,
or tamed my heartbeat with an exercise,
or starved for visions.
Although I have watched him often
I have not become the heron,
leaving my body on the shore,
and I have not become the luminous trout,
leaving my body in the air.

I have not worshipped wounds and relics,
or combs of iron,
or bodies wrapped and burnt in scrolls.

I have not been unhappy for ten thousand years.
During the day I laugh and during the nights I sleep.
My favourite cooks prepare my meals,
My body cleans and repairs itself,
And my work goes well.

Milan April 18, 2006 at 5:11 pm

Ultimate results of the qualitative methods test:

“Very good letter. Project outline and questions are also very good. Maybe a little more about his own role as well as the questions about his views. But otherwise all very good. Pass.”

Milan August 10, 2007 at 8:09 pm

I believe that you heard your master sing
when I was sick in bed.
I suppose that he told you everything
that I keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling,
well at least that’s what you said.
And now do you come back to bring
your prisoner wine and bread?

You met him at some temple, where
they take your clothes at the door.
He was just a numberless man in a chair
who’d just come back from the war.
And you wrap up his tired face in your hair
and he hands you the apple core.
Then he touches your lips now so suddenly bare
of all the kisses we put on some time before.

And he gave you a German Shepherd to walk
with a collar of leather and nails,
and he never once made you explain or talk
about all of the little details,
such as who had a word and who had a rock,
and who had you through the mails.
Now your love is a secret all over the block,
and it never stops not even when your master fails.

And he took you up in his aeroplane,
which he flew without any hands,
and you cruised above the ribbons of rain
that drove the crowd from the stands.
Then he killed the lights in a lonely Lane
and, an ape with angel glands,
erased the final wisps of pain
with the music of rubber bands.

And now I hear your master sing,
you kneel for him to come.
His body is a golden string
that your body is hanging from.
His body is a golden string,
my body has grown numb.
Oh now you hear your master sing,
your shirt is all undone.

And will you kneel beside this bed
that we polished so long ago,
before your master chose instead
to make my bed of snow?
Your eyes are wild and your knuckles are red
and you’re speaking far too low.
No I can’t make out what your master said
before he made you go.

Then I think you’re playing far too rough
for a lady who’s been to the moon;
I’ve lain by this window long enough
to get used to an empty room.
And your love is some dust in an old man’s cough
who is tapping his foot to a tune,
and your thighs are a ruin, you want too much,
let’s say you came back some time too soon.

I loved your master perfectly
I taught him all that he knew.
He was starving in some deep mystery
like a man who is sure what is true.
And I sent you to him with my guarantee
I could teach him something new,
and I taught him how you would long for me
no matter what he said no matter what you’d do.

I believe that you heard your master sing
while I was sick in bed,
I’m sure that he told you everything
I must keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling,
well at least that’s what you said,
And now do you come back to bring
your prisoner wine and bread?

Leave a Comment

Previous post:

Next post: